


The Baby Project

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Baby Simulator, Crack, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Sharing a Bed, Stargazing, Teenagers, background Greg/Molly, background Irene/Janine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>In hindsight, John thought, the smug expression on Mr. Copper's face as he'd carried a large box into the classroom should have told him that this wasn't going to be a Monday like any other. However, he really hadn't anticipated the box to contain several realistic looking baby dolls and the sentence “Congratulations, you're going to be parents” to come out of his teacher's mouth.</em> </p><p>John and Sherlock are assigned to look after a baby simulator together. While the parental sensitivity is slow to come, feelings of a different kind are definitely sprouting between them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads-up, this is unbeta'd and English isn't my native language. If you find any mistakes, please feel free to point them out to me. Comments are more than appreciated!
> 
> Many thanks to Thais (clueingforlooks on tumblr) for helping me with some of the details!

In hindsight, John thought, the smug expression on Mr. Copper's face as he'd carried a large box into the classroom should have told him that this wasn't going to be a Monday like any other.

However, he really hadn't anticipated the box to contain several realistic looking baby dolls and the sentence “Congratulations, you're going to be parents” to come out of his teacher's mouth.

The statement was followed by a moment of absolute silence. Then everyone erupted into chatter at once.

“They've lost it,” Greg muttered next to John, shaking his head. “Now they've really lost it.” John only nodded in agreement.

“Oh, but this is exciting!” Molly whispered to their left.

"Bollocks,” Anderson sneered behind them. "What kind of bullshit is this?"

One voice rose over the others, the comment clearly directed at their teacher. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Owner of the voice was Sherlock Holmes. John raised his eyebrows as he turned to look at him.

Sherlock hardly ever spoke in class. He was known for correcting the teachers from time to time, but completely withdrew from the happenings around him otherwise. Despite sharing three courses with him, John had never exchanged a word with Sherlock in the two terms that they'd been classmates.

There were all sorts of rumours about Sherlock Holmes, none of which John really listened to, but they did spark his interest. If he was being honest he'd had a weird fascination with the boy since the beginning of the year, as Mike called it (he refused to see it as a crush, as Greg called it). There was an air about him that John couldn't quite explain, something that drew his gaze to him more times than he cared to admit.

Maybe that was why John had noticed that he'd spoken a few seconds before anyone else did.

The chatter died down as the other students realised what he'd said and focused on him. Mr. Copper seemed as surprised as everyone else that Sherlock had spoken, but looked quite delighted at the prospect of him contributing something to the discussion.

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Do you have something to say?”

Sherlock looked like he had a lot of things to say, John thought as he took in his stiff posture, the crease on his forehead, his set jaw. But he never did.

It was a shame, really. Whenever he opened his mouth, John ended up being stunned into silence. The force of knowledge and thoughtfulness behind the things he said was astonishing. It was quite the experience.

Not to mention that he had a lovely voice, too.

“Surely you must realise that this is the last term of Year 12 for everyone in this room but you,” Sherlock said. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the doll in Mr. Copper's hands. “We have more important things to focus on than a piece of plastic you're forcing us to carry around.”

“If you're worried about the educational value, Mr. Holmes, never fear. This project is part of your sociology class, it's not just for fun. And for the time being these aren't 'a piece of plastic', they're your children.”

Sherlock looked appalled. Before he could open his mouth to reply, Greg raised his arm.

“But for how long do we have to take them?” he asked, not bothering to wait until he was called on. “Like a week? Or only for the time of our sociology course, then?”

Mr. Copper let out an alarming laugh. “A week? My, Mr. Lestrade, you're in for a surprise if you ever get real children. They don't go away after a week, and neither do these babies. The purpose of this project is to create a realistic scenario to which you will have to adapt. We paid good money for these dolls, mind you, and it took ages for the school to be granted the necessary funds by the government, so they're going to be properly used. In fact, you'll be looking after them until the end of term.”

Anderson cried out before anyone else got the chance to react. “The end of _term?”_

John couldn't help but agree with the sentiment behind the question. What the hell were they thinking? He had enough to do with his courses and work, how was he going to look after a baby doll on top of that?

“You can't be serious!” Greg revolted. “That's what, over a month? You can't force us to take care of a doll for a _month!_   We're in Sixth Form!”

“Yeah, actually, how exactly is that going to work?” John chipped in. “This is gonna take up _a lot_ of our time. We can't do this,” he gesticulated towards the box, “on top of our classes!”

“You can, and you will.” Mr. Copper sounded like he didn't see any problem with the arrangement. “If you'll just let me finish, everything will be explained. As I said, this isn't just for fun. This project will make up 40% of your sociology grade, as well as 25% of your AS-level. The school is aware that you have a lot to do. However, we agreed that this project will provide valuable experiences and lessons for all of you. Starting with managing your work under less than ideal circumstances,” he explained with a nod in John's direction.

“Less than ideal circumstances, my arse,” Anderson muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. John rolled his eyes and saw Sherlock doing the same from the corner of his eye. His lips twitched at the sight.

Mr. Copper talked right over the comment. “As for the amount of work the baby's going to be, well, that's why you'll be paired up. There's a doll for each group of two students.”

“How's that gonna work?” Janine asked, cocking her head. “One of us takes the baby home and does all the work and the other one gets to sit back and relax?”

“No, no, not at all. You're going to have to cooperate. Everything will be exactly as it would be if you had a real baby with your partner. You're going to work out how to split the work. We're currently contacting your parents, as some of you might have noticed. Most of them have agreed to accommodate your partners for the duration of the project when the need arises, for the sake of realism. Those of you who can't arrange anything of the like will have to take turns, like separated parents do. Yes, Miss Adler?”

John craned his head to get a look at her as Irene spoke. When she raised her hand, she usually had quite a lot to say.

“You speak of realism, Mr. Copper," she began, "but you might have noticed that there's an uneven number of male and female students in this class. Also, I don't see how this project can be anything but unrealistic for me, seeing as I'm gay and won't have to deal with an unplanned child ever in my life.”

Mr. Copper seemed unfazed. “Don't worry, Miss Adler, we're a modern school and we value tolerance and inclusion. This project isn't limited to mixed pairs, there'll be same-sex couples looking after the dolls as well.”

Irene looked indignant. “That defies the whole point of your so-called realistic project! How the hell would a same-sex couple _accidentally_ end up with a baby?”

Mr. Copper sighed. “Please, don't take everything I say at face value, alright? Just go with it. Participation in this project is not negotiable.”

“I don't see why not.”

Sherlock had spoken again. Now his arms were crossed before his chest. “There's no point in doing it if there's no chance of us ever ending up with a baby by accident at all.”

John raised his eyebrows. Well. Maybe some of those rumours about Sherlock were true, after all.

Greg seemed to have read his thoughts, as he elbowed John in the ribs. John rolled his eyes, ignoring the suggestive smirk, and returned his attention to Sherlock.

“You can discuss all you want, you're doing this project. All of you.” Mr. Copper smiled at the groan going through the class, then clapped his hands. “Now, to the pairings. As there are twenty-four students in this class, I'll be putting you into groups of two now-”

“ _What?”_ John sat up in his chair. Greg gasped to his left.

“Seriously? We have to do this thing and can't even chose our partner on our own? What's the point in _that?_ ”

"The point is, as I've said before, that you'll learn to adapt to circumstances that aren't preferable to you. I thought of a good arrangement after taking different aspects into consideration. You can make suggestions for changes, but the final decision lies with me, got it?”

Mr. Copper sighed at the cross faces staring back at him. 

“Think of the positive aspects. You're getting the full hands-on parenting experience right here for free, and you even get to give the kid back in the end! Just see it as a free trial. I mean, who gets that chance?” He cleared his throat as he took out a list. “Right, so, first the groups, then the details. I'll listen to your suggestions and we can discuss. Miss Adler, let's start with you.”

John looked around as he zoned out of the conversation. It wasn't that he was unpopular, he got along with most of his classmates well enough, but he found it hard to imagine himself looking after a baby for over a month with any of them.

He sighed. He'd just wait and see who Mr. Copper had paired him up with. As long as it wasn't Anderson...

“Do we at least get to pick a baby?” Irene asked as she went to the front of the classroom with Janine to collect their doll, peeking into the box.

“No. Just as in real life, the gender and looks of your baby are a surprise.” He grabbed a doll at random and handed it over to Janine, who clumsily held it against her chest. “And here's your care package. Next one's – ah, yes. Mr. Anderson.”

Anderson, as it turned out, got paired up with Sally Donovan, so at least that was out of the question. John sat back as his classmates received their dolls one after another. He had to give the school credit for diversity; each of the dolls had a different face and skin colour, resembling the students appropriately.

“Next one on my list is Molly Hooper. Miss Hooper, I paired you up with Greg Lestrade.”

Molly's cheeks turned a faint red. Greg suddenly straightened in his seat. John suppressed a sigh. Any slim chances of being paired up with Greg had just gone out the window. 

He and Molly went to collect their doll and John looked around as Mr. Copper returned his attention to the list. Maybe he could get Mike or Sarah? They were nice enough. 

“Next one's Sherlock Holmes. I've paired you up with John Watson.”

John's head snapped up. _What?_

He'd heard correctly, seeing as everyone in the room was now staring at him. So he hadn't been the only one wondering who would end up with Sherlock. Funnily enough, this arrangement hadn't occurred to him.

Speaking of. He wondered what Sherlock was thinking, but was strangely nervous to find out.

John licked his lips. Nothing for it. He squared his shoulders before glancing at Sherlock, who looked like he'd just bitten into something sour.

Perfect.

Before either of them could say anything, Mike raised his voice.

“Oh, that works perfectly, doesn't it, John? You've got three classes together, don't you? And you don't live too far from each other.”

John blinked in horror. Never mind the fact that Mike apparently knew where Sherlock lived – if he was trying to help John with his non-existent crush, he'd never hear the end of it.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, giving John a once-over as he considered Mike's words. “I suppose,” he said.

John swallowed. “Right.”

He rose from his chair to collect their doll, Sherlock following a moment later. John felt strangely aware of his tall presence looming right behind him.

Mr. Copper held out a doll with light brown skin to Sherlock, who persistently refused to take it. John rolled his eyes and snatched the doll from his teacher's hands. Sherlock took the care package wordlessly and returned to his seat. John followed him there, sitting down beside him. They waited in silence until the last pair had received their doll.

Mr. Copper clapped his hands once. “Now, everyone settled? Great. Let's get the introduction bit over with before we wake your kids up and your life's over for the next five weeks. Oh, come on, guys. It's a joke, you're allowed to laugh.”

John looked up in surprise when Sherlock huffed and shook his head.

“Idiot,” he said through his teeth. John tried to disguise his snorting as a cough and failed miserably. The first thing he heard Sherlock Holmes say that wasn't related to class, and it turned out to be _this?_

Sherlock's head spun around as he giggled. His eyes fixed on John's, and John, though his mouth suddenly felt dry, returned the look with a smile.

“You're not wrong,” he pointed out in a low voice, tilting his head towards their teacher. Sherlock blinked. John regarded him for another moment, then looked away, still smiling.

Well. Maybe this wasn't going to be too bad after all.

The next twenty minutes were spent with explanations of the project, the baby simulator and any remaining questions. John groaned when he heard that the doll was programmed to cry for different reasons and calm down only once its specific needs were tended to. Figuring out what it wanted would take ages. Especially if Sherlock continued to refuse any cooperation.

“Now, if you'd all open your packages, please. You'll find two bracelets inside. The red one is the main bracelet, but the blue one works the same way. You can put them on now, once you've decided who's wearing which. The only difference between them is that in extreme situations, the baby might require the main bracelet to be calmed. Mind you, sometimes it won't calm down at all. That's part of your challenge.”

John took hold of the two bracelets. He looked at them for a moment, then threw a questioning glance at Sherlock. His expression spoke volumes.

“I refuse to wear the main bracelet.”

John sighed. “Yeah, I figured as much. That's fine, I guess. Here, let me-”

He took Sherlock's wrist, startling him into complete stillness as he put the bracelet on. “There, all set. Can you do mine?”

Sherlock blinked a couple of times as he looked down at his wrist, then seemed to remember himself. He took the bracelet and wrapped it around John's outstretched wrist, his fingers ghosting over his skin so lightly it almost made John shiver. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“Good,” Mr. Copper continued, drawing the attention back to him, “as you'll have realised by now, the bracelets are where your ID chip is. You'll need it to show the baby you're there. There's a slot for the chips at the doll's back, you just have to press them in and the sensors will register that you're there. The bracelets can only be taken off if you cut through them, so don't even think about giving them to someone else. There is an extra bracelet for babysitting purposes, but the computer will register when it's being used too often. That will drop your final score once the system evaluates your data at the end of the project.”

“I'm sure you can change the records before handing the doll in,” Sherlock muttered. John gave him a stern look.

“Alright, you can unpack the rest at home. Most of what you'll need is in there. Two diapers and a bottle with sensors, another romper suit, the third bracelet. You'll have to take care of the rest yourself. I'm gonna pass these handbooks and the guidelines for the report you'll have to write on the project around now.”

A collective groan went through the class. “And once you've all got them, you can wake your babies up. Today's lesson is almost over. You just put your chip into the slot and wait until it starts making sounds.”

John took the stack of paper from Mike, who regarded him with a fond smile, and passed them on to Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. Then he took hold of the doll again, letting out a deep breath.

“Right, then. Shall I?”

Sherlock sighed, drawing out the long-suffering sound. “If you must.” John bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling at his stance.

“Alright, let's do this.”

He unbuttoned the doll's romper suit, peeking at the bottom parts in the process. “Ah, it's a girl, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't.”

“Right.”

He found the slot and pressed his chip in. A moment passed, then the doll started making a strange babbling sound.

It sounded a lot like “ma-ma-ma-ma”.

Sherlock sighed. “Perfect.”

John had to agree. He held the doll up, squinting at its face. “It's kind of cute.”

Sherlock huffed. “It's an eight-pound, infant-shaped robot wrapped in plastic.”

John eyed the baby again, then smiled. “Cute plastic, though.”

It was over in a second, but John could have sworn that he saw a twitch at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He held back a grin.

As everywhere around them the other dolls started to coo, he asked, “So, your place or mine?”

Sherlock gave him a long, assessing look. “Mine,” he decided. “It's somewhat closer to the school and there's more room. My parents are out most of the time, so we'll be left alone more than at yours, with your sister being home all the time since she's dropped out of college.”

John's mouth fell open. “How did you-”

Sherlock had risen before he got to finish the sentence. “Come by this afternoon, I need to sort something out first.” He pointed at the doll. “Take the robot baby until then, would you? I'll text you the address.”

“Wait, you-” John was momentarily distracted by the crowing baby in his arms. When he looked up, Sherlock was already halfway out of the door. “You don't even have my number!” he called after him as he cradled the doll to his chest, but Sherlock was already gone.

* * *

John wasn't surprised when his text alert sounded not long after he'd sat down for lunch. He'd let Harry's laughter wash over him when she'd seen him come home with a doll, then dumped it on her to grab a bite. He picked up his phone to read the message.

 

_57b St Vincent Road. It's a ten minute walk from the school's bus station. Red House. Can't miss it. -SH_

 

John typed out a reply.

 

_Alright, be there in about 40 minutes. Just got to finish my lunch._

_So how did you get my number? And how did you know all these things earlier, actually?_

 

He barely got to take another bite before his text alert went off again.

 

_Really? You couldn't wait 40 more minutes to ask me these pressing questions? -SH_

 

John smiled.

 

_Indulge me._

 

This time it took a little longer for Sherlock to reply. John didn't know what he'd expected when he read the text, but it hadn't been _that._

 

_Fine. I know my house is closer to the school than yours because you take the bus there, while I walk. I can tell you're used to working in small spaces from the way you arrange your things on your desk in class. Even when you sit alone you put everything neatly in one spot at the top of your desk, where it'll take up the least space. Therefore, not much room at home. Even less so, now that your sister's back home. You started exclusively using pads of notepaper from West London College a few weeks into the second term, which you wouldn't if your sister still went there and used them herself. Child's play._

_As for your phone number, Lestrade sits next to me in maths. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. It's his own fault for not setting a password on his phone. -SH_

 

“What are you gaping at?” Harry asked, trying to peer at John's phone as she walked around the table. “Here, your doll's waking up.” She dumped the baby into his arms without much ado, and John only just caught it.

“Careful!” he cried. “And it's- nothing. Nothing.” He balanced the doll in one hand and his plate in another before setting it down next to the sink and unlocking his phone again.

 

_That was incredible. Absolutely incredible._

 

When he'd grabbed the care package and the doll, he'd received another message.

 

_You think so? That's new. -SH_

 

_How so?_

 

_People aren't usually too fond of being observed like that. They tell me to piss off before I even get to explain. -SH_

 

_So you do that often, do you? Well, telling you that would be a bit beside the point, seeing as I'm now on my way to you ;)_

 

He didn't get another text after that, but was greeted by Sherlock waiting at the front door before he even reached the gate.

“You know you don't have to sign every text you send me, right? I got your number after the first one,” John said with a grin. Sherlock merely quirked his eyebrows as he walked towards him.

John took a long look at the house while Sherlock opened the gate. The red bricks really were conspicuous. It looked homely and not at all like a house John would have imagined Sherlock to live in. Not that he'd ever imagined anything like that.

“So this is your house, huh?” he said, stepping into the front garden and holding out the doll to Sherlock.

“No, John, this is actually a complete stranger's house. I led you here to get you arrested for breaking and entering and then carry out the project on my own.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. The effect was somewhat diminished by the baby doll in his arms. “Of course it's my house.”

John grinned. “You put a lot of thought into that,” he remarked. “Don't get any ideas.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “Why in the world would I want to look after a baby simulator on my own for several weeks?”

“Touché,” John replied, following Sherlock as he went inside.

The interior of the house was much like he'd expected from the looks of it. Despite the cleanness, there were a lot of odds and ends lying around without making the rooms seem messy. They just looked well-used and homely.

There were pieces of furniture next to each other that clearly didn't belong. The walls were a mix of vibrant colours – John spotted green and red wallpaper in passing- as well as a friendly shade of white, not the bright, clinical type they had at school, completed by pastel doors in yet another shade of green.

None of it should have fit together, but still somehow did. It all carried a sense of snugness, and John felt at ease instantly. He would have liked to see the rest of the space where Sherlock lived, but he didn't feel like intruding. He figured that he'd see most of it in the weeks to come, anyway.

“Before you ask, yes, this _is_ my room,” Sherlock remarked dryly as he led John to the door at the end of the hall.

John rolled his eyes and smiled despite himself. “Git,” he muttered. Then he took a look around.

Sherlock still stood in the doorway, wearing an expression John would have described as nervous if it hadn't been Sherlock Holmes he was looking at.

“It's nice,” John said, glancing back at him.

It really was. The better part of the room was cluttered like the rest of the house, but Sherlock's bed ( _huge bed,_ John noticed) and his desk were almost painstakingly tidy. He hadn't expected any decorations, but was surprised to find various pictures on the wall. He noticed a periodic table, as well as a scientific figure of a honeybee in a frame hung up over his bed. John's mouth twitched at that. It seemed so _Sherlock._

Sherlock gave him something close to a smile. _“Mi casa es su casa,”_   he said with a perfect accent, his shoulders relaxing minimally as he stepped into the room.

Something inside John softened. Maybe he, like everyone else at school, had yet to get to know the real Sherlock. The prospect of doing that made his stomach flutter in a way he didn't want to examine any closer right now. Or ever.

He cleared his throat. “Is it okay if I sit on the bed?” he asked. Sherlock nodded.

“Suit yourself.” He himself sank to the floor in a graceful motion ( _graceful?_ John thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself, _Really?_ ) before the bed, eyeing the doll warily as John put it down next to him.

“Right, let's get this over with.” John sighed as he pulled out the stack of paper Mr. Copper had given them earlier. Sherlock regarded it with a scowl. John decided not to dwell on how adorable that expression made him look.

“Or we could just... not do that,” Sherlock suggested.

“Nope.”

He sighed, dramatically crossing his arms before his chest. “I am already regretting this.”

“Well, you're stuck with me for the next couple of weeks, so deal with it,” John replied dryly. “Okay, so there's a questionnaire we have to fill in now and another one for after the project.” He skimmed the questions. “God, this is gonna take forever. What do they need to know all that for?”

He nearly jumped when the doll suddenly made a loud, high-pitched crying sound. “Jesus!”

Sherlock watched the baby with an appalled expression. “Do something,” he demanded. John stared at him in disbelief.

“What am I supposed to do? _You_ do something!”

“You have the main bracelet!”

“And I already had her over lunch, now it's your turn!”

Sherlock stared daggers at him. John stared right back, crossing his arms for good measure. “Whenever you're ready,” he said, raising his brows. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. It took another moment, but then he pulled himself up and snatched the doll from the bed.

“Careful,” John warned him, already reaching for the handbook. “You need to support her head when you pick her up, otherwise she'll start crying even more.” He skimmed the text. “Put the chip into the slot on her back, and then- ah, try rocking her back and forth.”

Sherlock stared at him again. John nodded encouragingly, miming the motion with his arms. Sherlock looked like he'd swallowed something bitter, but started rocking the doll anyway. The crying ebbed away almost immediately. Sherlock dropped his head back, closing his eyes.

“This is humiliating,” he ground out.

John only sighed. “Right. Can you answer the questions like this? We'd best get started on them, who knows when she'll start crying again.”

All he got in reply was an unintelligible grumble. He picked up the questionnaire anyway.

“First one,” he read out loud, “name of your-” He dropped the papers. “Jesus, Sherlock, we forgot to pick a name!”

“What does it need a name for?”

“What does it- are you actually serious right now? We're supposed to treat _her,_ ” John stressed the pronoun, “like we would treat a real baby, so of course she needs a bloody name. God.” He shook his head, exhaling a deep breath. “You're not gonna make this easy, are you?”

Sherlock gave him a look that spoke volumes.

“Look, I didn't ask for this either, okay? But we're stuck with this robot baby now, so we're gonna have to get through it. And it'll be a lot easier if we just try and get along, so one of us doesn't have to do all the work.”

“I'm not trying _not_ to get along with you,” Sherlock gave back, looking frustrated. “I was merely asking a valid question. I don't understand it. This whole thing. It doesn't make the slightest bit of sense to me. _You_ have nothing to do with it.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly John felt guilty. He'd done it, hadn't he? He'd gone and made assumptions about Sherlock based on nothing but the rumours going around. But, as he realised now, they seemed to have nothing to do with the boy standing in front of him, looking so dissatisfied with himself for not having been able to make him understand.

“God, I'm sorry,” he said, biting his lip. “Really. I didn't mean that. Okay. Like I said, I'm not happy about having to do this either, but I think we're gonna get through this if we work together.”

Sherlock's face looked guarded, but he nodded. “So, what name do you have in mind for _our daughter?_ ” he asked after a moment, relaxing when John broke into a grin. "Any suggestions?"

“Er, none so far, actually,” he admitted, tilting his head as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't suppose you've got a preference, do you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well, how about...” He trailed off, looking around the room for inspiration. “Margaret?” he suggested, catching the name of an author on one of the many books Sherlock kept in his room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I don't like it that much either,” John said. “What about... oh!” A grin spread on his face as it came to him. “I know! Beatrice.”

“Beatrice?” Sherlock echoed, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

John smirked. “Yep. I deduce from that picture,” he pointed at the wall, “that you like bees. So we'll call her Beatrice, and then we can shorten it to Bee, and soon you'll start associating positive feelings with her because _you like bees_ and then this project won't be so bad for you anymore.”

“That is... the worst reasoning I've ever heard.”

John's grin grew wider. “You like it.”

“I don't _hate_ it.”

“And that's as good as it's going to get. Beatrice it is, then.” He filled in the gap on the questionnaire before reading out question two. “Answer the following questions with _yes, no_ or _undecided_. Partner A, do you want children?”

And so they continued. John had been right, it took them ages to finish the questions. And yet it somehow didn't feel like it. Sherlock was surprisingly funny in response to one question, then just as thoughtful in response to the next one, and John realised after a while that he was actually enjoying himself. Enjoying getting to know Sherlock more.

When his growling stomach reminded him of the time, it was already getting dark outside.

“What the hell?” John mumbled, stretching his back. Where had the afternoon gone? He yawned. “It's getting late,” he said, standing up with a sigh. “I better get going.”

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded once. “Yes. Of course.”

There was a moment of silence during which they both looked at the doll. Then John let out a sigh. “I'll take her with me for tonight, yeah? We can work out a schedule tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Fine.”

John rubbed his eyes after he slipped into his jacket. He hadn't noticed how tired he'd gotten as they'd acquainted themselves with the details of the project. “That wasn't too bad, was it? Bit exhausting, though,” he mumbled after suppressing a yawn.

“That was only the first day,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I know.” John took the doll from Sherlock's hands. He hadn't realised that Sherlock had carried her the whole afternoon until then, not complaining once. He supposed it was only fair that he took her for the first night.

“Right. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Wish me luck,” he mumbled.

“Good luck,” Sherlock remarked. He looked at him for another moment and for a second John thought he was going to say something, but then he opened the front door and let John step through without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, thank bloody god,” John muttered when he spotted Sherlock at his locker. He walked up to him, barely managing a greeting before pressing the doll to Sherlock's chest. “Take her.”

Sherlock complied, taking Beatrice clumsily, then raised his gaze to John's face. “You look tired.”

_You don't fucking say._

“Yeah, bloody good observation. I _am_ bloody tired. She wouldn't stop crying for an hour, and then she kept starting over again every goddamn hour after that. Jesus. I'm exhausted.” John ran a hand over his face, then noticed Sherlock staring at him with quirked eyebrows. “What.”

“Your swearing seems to increase with lack of sleep. Interesting.”

John gave a short laugh. “Interesting. Yeah. You know what's interesting? That there are people younger than us who end up with an actual, real baby and manage to work it out, and yet we fail to look after a bloody robot simulator together within a _single day._ ”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “We can't do it like this. I don't care, Sherlock, I don't care if I have to sleep in your bloody garden, but I'm not doing this alone, I can't, and neither will you, so _please,_ get over-”

“Why would you sleep in the garden?” Sherlock interrupted before John could finish, looking puzzled. That caught him off guard.

“Because... you don't want me to sleep in your house?”

“Why do you think that? I never said that!”

Sherlock's genuine perplexion only served to confuse John even more.

“What? But you- you didn't offer it and I thought, well, you're Sherlock Holmes and-”

“I didn't offer because you didn't ask,” Sherlock interrupted him again, a crease appearing on his forehead. “I assumed you wouldn't want to stay overnight, seeing as I'm _Sherlock Holmes_ and everyone seems so hell bent on thinking that I'm-”

“Okay. Stop.” John held his hands up in surrender. “We both got this completely the wrong way around, didn't we? So you're saying it's fine if I stay overnight?”

Sherlock nodded, his expression clearly conveying that he didn't appreciate having to repeat himself.

“And I'm saying that I'd like to stay over. So that's settled.” John took a deep breath. “See? We should just talk to each other to prevent things like that. Otherwise we'll never get anywhere with- this.”

This project. This friendship. Whatever.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “I'm gonna pick up some stuff at home after school before we meet up. Oh, and don't think I'm planning on living with you for the next five weeks now. We should switch, nevermind my sister and my- well. I'm sure we can work something out so you can sleep at my house, too.” He paused. “If that's something you're comfortable with,” he added with a pointed look. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his expression had softened.

“Noted,” he said. “Although my house _is_ more practical,” he added after a beat. John just shook his head and smiled.

* * *

After the night he'd had, John had expected school to be stressful. Especially considering the fact that there was a doll for every two students of the class, and at least one of them was crying at any given moment. At least the students were permitted to leave the classroom with their babies in order to keep the lessons running. If two project partners shared a class, one of them was even allowed to be absent from an entire lesson to look after the doll, as long as they kept up on their work.

John had refused to take Beatrice for his morning lessons, insisting that Sherlock take her to his music class.

“Consider it bonding time,” he'd said, enjoying the silence as he'd turned and walked away without the cooing baby in his arms.

Now he was getting ready for PE with Greg by his side, who was chattering on about how enthusiastic Molly was about the project and how tired they both were, but that it was definitely worth it to see her so excited.

John thought that if he had to listen to him gushing over Molly one more minute, he was going to fall asleep. And _he_ was the one being accused of having a crush.

“How did things with Sherlock go?” Greg asked as the students gathered around the gym.

“Uh, fine, yeah,” John said, biting his lower lip. “I don't know. He's pretty different from what you'd think. From what everyone says about him, anyway.”

“That's true.” Greg nodded. “Not that I talk to him a lot during maths, but we sit next to each other and you realise a few things, you know? He's not all bad.”

“He really isn't,” John agreed, the tips of his ears going red when Greg smirked at him. “Anyway, about that. You should probably set a password on your phone, just so you know.”

“Christ, he's done it again, hasn't he?” Greg sighed. “You'd think I'd notice if someone took my phone...”

“Well, he's not someone,” John said with a shrug “He's Sherlock.” He pursed his lips, then added, “I really do like him. There's probably not another person on this planet who'd describe him as charming, but really, he kind of is. He's... different. Just different. But good different, you know?” He sighed. “I don't know, Greg. I feel like we might get along. I hope we do, anyway. Otherwise the next few weeks are going to be hellish.”

Greg assessed him for a moment. “You know,” he said after a moment, and there was none of the mockery in his voice that John had feared, “I think you probably will. Dunno why. But you've been having a crush on him from the start-” he ignored John rolling his eyes - “and from the way he reacted to being paired up with you... dunno,” he repeated. “You just seem to click.” He shrugged. “You just wait and see, maybe something good will come out of this after all.”

 _You just seem to click._  The words didn't leave John's head for the entire lesson. Was there really something special about him? He'd assumed that Sherlock accepting him as a partner without a fuss was due to Mike, but maybe they really did click in some way. He somehow couldn't see him being so calm about having to pair up with anyone else.

He was still pondering on it when he left the gym, nearly running into Sherlock, who was waiting for him next to the exit.

“Oh, hey, didn't see you there,” John said, glancing at Beatrice. “Everything alright? How is she?”

“I had to change the diaper three times already,” Sherlock reported with a frown that clearly indicated how he felt about that, “but otherwise everything is fine.”

“Alright. That's good. Listen, I'm gonna go home, take a shower, grab a couple of things for tonight,” John said. He gave him a pleading look. “Is it okay if you take her home until then? I'll be there in two hours at the latest, promise, then I can take her again.”

Sherlock's eyes travelled over John's sweat-soaked shirt, leaving John feeling very hot under his gaze all of a sudden. He swallowed, playing with the strap of his gym bag. Then Sherlock nodded. “Great, thanks. I'll hurry, I promise.”

He turned around and walked away, feeling Sherlock's gaze on him all the way until he reached the next corner.

* * *

“Thank god.” Sherlock didn't bother with a greeting, shoving a crying Beatrice into John's arms as soon as he opened the door. It reminded John of their reversed roles just that morning.

“Did you wait behind the door for me to show up just now?” he asked, following Sherlock inside. He wasn't graced with a reply. Instead Sherlock threw himself onto the bed once they reached his room, covering his face with his hands in a dramatic movement. John bit back a smile and sat down next to him, rocking the doll back and forth steadily.

“How long has she been crying?” he asked, using the opportunity to gaze at Sherlock's outstrechted body with only a hint of guilt. Nobody looked that good while throwing a tantrum. It wasn't fair.

“Since I got home,” came the muffled reply. “It's statistically impossible for it- for  _her_ to already need changing again. I gave her a bottle half an hour ago, that didn't help either.” He removed his hands from his face, fixating on John's face. “I can't do this. This thing does nothing but cry and babble incoherent sounds at the most inapt moments. It's _tedious._ ”

John sighed. “Well, that's a baby for you.” He craned his neck. “Where have you got the handbook? Anything in there that might help?”

“Nothing whatsoever. 'If all the baby's needs are taken care of and it keeps crying, gentle rocking motions usually calm it down within a few minutes',” Sherlock quoted. “Note the adverb. _Usually._ Well, as you'll have noticed, the handbook has been incredibly helpful so far.”

John couldn't blame Sherlock for resorting to sarcasm. The crying was already testing his patience, especially after last night, thank you very much, so he could imagine what Sherlock felt like.

“Alright, let's see what's wrong with her then. We can figure this out. There aren't that many reasons for babies to cry. A bellyache, hunger, a full diaper, boredom-” he gave Sherlock a pointed look, “tiredness... It's got to be one of those. So. You said you just changed her, right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“When was the last time she slept?”

“During my chemistry class and on the way home, so hardly two hours ago. Besides, I rocked her until my arms ached, so if it was that she would be asleep by now.”

“Right. Well, you said you fed her, so that- oh!" Realisation dawned on him. "Did you burp her?”

Sherlock's appalled expression was all the answer John needed.

“Really, Sherlock, you've got to do that. No wonder she's crying. Here,” he said, holding Beatrice out to Sherlock, who reluctantly took her. “You do it. You need to learn how it works anyway. Mind you, though, it's... quite the sound. Startled me a bit yesterday.”

He watched Sherlock put her over his shoulder, patting her back with a sceptical expression. He halted mid-motion when Beatrice made a loud, deep burping sound, which sounded like it had come from a grown man rather than a baby.

He blinked at John with wide eyes. John bit his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“Told you.” He held up a finger, waiting to see if the crying was over for good. The silence mercifully held on.

“There, see? All better now. Good girl,” John mumbled, patting the doll's back.

Sherlock, though he seemed relieved at the silence, regarded him with a mystified expression. “Why do you talk to it?”

“I don't know. Feels natural, I suppose.”

Sherlock huffed, pointing at the baby. “This is a plastic doll. Nothing about this is natural.”

“I see you're developing paternal feelings already,” John remarked dryly. “Good. Put it in the report.”

He met Sherlock's eyes and suddenly, stupidly, noticed how close they were standing to each other. Close enough for sure for Sherlock to catch John's breath hitching slightly at the realisation.

John inhaled deeply, ignoring something he identified as Sherlock's very own smell filling his nose, and stepped back.

“If you want a break, I can take her,” he said, his voice sounding just a little rough.

Sherlock nodded and passed Beatrice on to John. Then he lowered himself onto the bed. John averted his eyes as he reached for a book on his bedside table, his shirt riding up just enough for John to catch a glimpse of pale skin.

There was only so much he could take in one day.

* * *

Beatrice mercifully waited until John had finished his homework before she started crying again. He opened her romper suit to put his ID chip into the slot, then got up to walk around as he rocked her gently. When he turned around, he found Sherlock watching him from over his book.

“You seem to be quite good at this,” he said when John raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“Yeah, right.” John laughed. “I'm totally thinking about becoming a professional babysitter after school.”

“No, you're not.”

“No,” John confirmed, looking at him with a half-smile. “Do you know what you're going to do after school yet?” he then asked. “Probably got the next ten years all planned out, haven't you?”

To his surprise, Sherlock shook his head.

“Just because you already know that you want to become a doctor, John," he said dryly, "doesn’t mean that all of us have that clear an idea of their future.”

“How did you- nevermind. Actually, how _did_ you know that? Did Greg tell you?” John’s eyes lit up and he straightened, holding up a finger in excitement. “Oh no, wait, don’t tell me - it’s the way I wear my hair, isn’t it? Or how I pack my bag? Did my left hand give it away?”

Sherlock had raised an eyebrow as he’d waited for John to finish. Now an amused smile played on his lips. It was very becoming. John silently vowed to try and put it there as often as he could.

“Actually, one look at your timetable and your choice of typical medicine-relevant subjects gives it away, even to someone without any deductive skills.” He paused. "But it _is_ impressive how impressed you are with my observations," he added with a smirk.

John snorted. “So you just saw my timetable and guessed.”

“I never guess. And I don't just _see_ either. Everyone can see. I observe. It's where most people fail.”

“That's true," John agreed. "So,” he concluded, “you don’t know what you’re going to do after school yet.”

“Nope.”

John watched him for a moment. Then he started to grin. “Well, who knows, you might just become a detective or something, with your _deductive skills_ and your _observing, not seeing.”_

Sherlock's lips twitched again as John gave a poor imitation of his voice.

“I might just.”

John’s grin grew wider. “Or an apiarist.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, I think I’m holding off on the beekeeping until my retirement,” he said.

John tilted his head, trying to imagine Sherlock as an old man. “That's a nice thought, actually,” he considered, the mockery gone from his voice. “Suits you.”

He received another smile at that before Sherlock took hold of his book again.

“So it doesn't bother you?”

“What?”

“Not knowing? What you’re going to do after school.”

“Not particulary, no.” Sherlock seemed to think for a moment, then closed his book. “I imagine it's nice to have a definite plan. But things seldomly work out the way you want them to, so I'm keeping my options open. I'll apply to different universities and courses after school, see where it takes me. For now I'm focusing on getting through school at all.”

“Well, I don't think you need to worry about that.” John shrugged when Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I mean, you're smarter than everyone else there combined. I'm pretty sure you could have a straight A* record if you wanted.”

Sherlock conceded the point with a nod. Then he said, “Academic success isn't the only challenge school holds, though."

“Ah, you mean dealing with our dear classmates?” John asked with a grin. Then he clutched his chest in pretended shock. “What, you don't like them? I can't imagine why.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Have you _met_ Anderson?” He groaned, throwing his head back. “I think he was raised in a barn. God knows how he even got to Sixth Form.”

John chuckeled. “There must be something about him we just don't see. You should be glad you weren't paired up with him for this project. I know I am.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. Then he gave John a long look, leaving him more flushed than he cared to admit. “I think I got the good end of the deal with my assigned partner," he said.

John swallowed, then gave Sherlock a shy smile. “Yeah, I think so too.”

He listened up when he heard someone opening the front door. “Your parents?” he asked, glad for the sound to distract Sherlock's piercing gaze from him.

“My father,” Sherlock confirmed with a nod. “Mummy won't be home until much later.” John raised an eyebrow at the use of _mummy,_ but refrained from commenting.

“Right. I'd better go and say hi, then.”

Sherlock waved towards the door. John stepped outside, hearing Sherlock following behind him as he approached the living room.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked. The man turned around at the unfamiliar voice. John could see where Sherlock had gotten his height from. “Hello. I'm John Watson," he introduced himself. "I'm a friend of Sherlock's.”

As he looked at him, John was momentarily struck by the close resemblance he bore to his son. It wasn't hard to imagine what Sherlock would look like in thirty years time with his father before him.

Mr. Holmes was looking at John in surprise, a broad smile spreading on his face.

“Oh, hello, John. I'm Sherlock's father,” he said, shaking his hand with a sparkle in his eyes. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” John said. Then he nodded towards Beatrice. “Um. We have to do this project for school, so if you hear someone crying, that's her.”

Mr. Holmes glanced at the baby with a humorous smile. “Yes, Sherlock told us about it last night.” He looked up at John's face. “You're staying over, then?” he asked, smiling so warmly that John felt like the question was only a formality, and him living here for a month was the natural thing to do. He nodded.

“For now, if that's alright, sir.”

“Of course, my boy, don't you worry. You make yourself at home here. And none of that 'sir' thing, alright?”

John grinned. “Alright.”

“Would you like to sleep on the sofa? We can arrange it in no time.”

“Ah, actually, I think it's better if I stay in Sherlock's room. Because of the baby and all." He cleared his throat. "The floor will be just fine.”

“Oh, if you're sure. You just go ahead and make yourself comfortable, Sherlock and I can set up your bed in the meantime. And then I'll take care of dinner. Are you two hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” John admitted. Even Sherlock nodded. Mr. Holmes looked pleased at the sight. “Well, then,” he said, clapping his hands, “we'd best get started.”

* * *

Dinner with Sherlock and his father was nice. Really nice, actually. Much less stiff than John had anticipated. Mr. Holmes was placid enough to make John feel at ease instantly, and even Sherlock's remarks lacked their usual sarcasm.

They sat around the table for a cup of tea afterwards, Mr. Holmes engaging John in effortless conversation, before they excused themselves to Sherlock's room again. Sherlock, though he was mostly quiet while John and his father talked, seemed to enjoy himself as well.

“When will your mum get home?” John asked a while later, suppressing a yawn. The exhaustion from earlier had caught up with him over dinner.

“Could be well after midnight.” Sherlock shrugged. “It's not worth staying up for. You're tired.”

“Yeah, I really am.”

“You'll meet her soon enough,” Sherlock assured him. “We can go to bed if you want to.”

“Alright. You don't have to sleep yet, though,” John said. “I don't mind sleeping with the lights on.”

“No, it's fine.”

“If you say so. I'm gonna go and get ready then.”

When John returned from the bathroom in his pyjamas, Sherlock was fiddling with Beatrice's romper suit. He looked up when John entered the room.

“Are you sure you want to sleep on that?” he asked, nodding towards the improvised bed on the floor.

“That looks just fine,” John assured him, dropping his clothes onto the floor next to it. Sherlock looked sceptical, but said nothing. 

“Thanks, by the way. That was kind of you and your father, I could have done that myself. He seems really nice,” he added. “And he reminds me of you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I get that all the time. People can never decide whether I resemble my father or my mother more." He gave a half-smile that made John's heart flutter in his chest. "I'll take it as a compliment.”

“It is,” John agreed, reaching for his phone.

“You know,” Sherlock said as John sat down, putting the doll over his shoulder, “I really think you should continue staying here instead of me coming over to your house. I know you feel some sort of misguided sense of having to keep things even, but as Mr. Copper so kindly pointed out, this project is about dealing with less than ideal circumstances, and I was thinking-" He halted. "You just took a picture of me.”

John lowered his phone after having indeed just taken a photo of Sherlock with Beatrice over his shoulder. “Brilliant observation,” he remarked, flashing him a grin.

Sherlock blinked repeatedly. “Why?”

“I'm waiting until you become famous, then I'll sell it on ebay.” John shrugged, then broke into giggles at the sight of Sherlock's incredulous face. “It's for the report, genius. Don't worry, I won't blackmail you with it.”

Sherlock still seemed perplexed, but said nothing. John snapped another picture of him for good measure.

“Right, you were saying?” he prompted.

Sherlock shook his head slightly as he remembered himself. “I was just proposing-” A crying sound from Beatrice cut him off again.

“Already? How about we go on a date first?”

The words were out before John could stop them. He resisted the urge to clap his hand over his mouth, staring at Sherlock as heat rose in his cheeks. Sherlock looked at a loss for words for a moment, his cheeks turning a faint red as well. _Oh, brilliant,_ John thought.

“Really, John?” Sherlock seemed to catch himself then, quirking a playful eyebrow. “If you wanted a date, all you had to do was ask.” His mocking tone was somewhat diminished by the blush that still decorated his sharp cheekbones.

John swallowed around the sudden dryness in his mouth. What the hell was he supposed to say to _that?_   What did Sherlock _want_ him to say to that?

“Well, let's raise our baby first, then we'll see what happens,” he got out eventually, somehow managing not to sound choked. They were both silent for a moment, still flushed from the unexpected exchange.

“Erm, so, what were you actually going to say?” John asked at last.

“Ah. Right." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I was _suggesting_ that you stay here for the next month, seeing as my parents are happy to have you here and everything else speaks for it, too.”

John sighed. “You're not gonna let this go, are you?”

Sherlock only looked at him.

“Right. Let's agree on the first two weeks for now, alright? We can still change things up after that.”

“Deal.” Sherlock walked over to him, dropping Beatrice in his lap. Then he turned to his closet, unceremoniously taking off his shirt right in front of John.

John's mouth fell open. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock's back as he changed into an old shirt, his muscles flexing underneath his pale skin in a mesmerizing play. If he took his trousers of as well, John was going to have a serious problem.

Luckily, he just grabbed his pyjama trousers and went for the door.

“Be right back,” he said, thankfully not looking at John as he left. John wasn't sure he would have liked him to see his face that moment.

When he returned, John had already put Beatrice onto her blanket on Sherlock's desk and settled into bed, schooling his features into a neutral expression.

“Good night, Sherlock,” he said after Sherlock turned off the lights, closing his eyes.

“Good night, John,” came the gentle reply. He heard the rustling of sheets as Sherlock got into bed, and soon the noises faded until their mixed breathing became the only sound in the room.

John relaxed and closed his eyes.

It felt like he'd fallen asleep a mere few seconds ago when the silence was broken by Beatrice's startling cries.

“Oh god,” John groaned, pressing his fists against his eyes. "Please, not again.” He was so bloody _tired._

They lay in the dark for a while, listening to the crying in silence.

“How long did this last yesterday?” Sherlock asked eventually.

“Almost an hour. Jesus.” John buried his face in his pillow. “It's the second day and I'm ready to give up. This is a nightmare.”

He heard the sheets rustling again, then the sound of Sherlock's naked feet on the floor.

“Go back to sleep,” he said. John watched his silhouette move towards the door. “You had her last night. It's my turn now.”

Before John could protest, he was out of the door. The crying faded into blissful silence, and soon after that, John was lulled back to sleep.

And somehow, miraculously, he didn't wake again until it was morning.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun shone onto his face when John woke up. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He stretched, still unbelieving that he'd slept uninterrupted until his alarm had sounded. It felt like a blessing after the night he'd had before.

“Morning,” he mumbled. 

There was no reply. John sat up, glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock looked dead to the world. “You didn't seriously sleep through my alarm, did you?”

Silence. 

John moved to stand up, poking Sherlock in the ribs as he passed the bed. Still nothing.

“Huh.”

Well, at least they wouldn't have to fight over who got to use the bathroom first.

Going through his morning routine took the remaining sleepiness out of John. He remembered to take Beatrice with him as he sneaked out of the room. He didn't know how long Sherlock had sat up last night, looking after her, so the least he deserved was to sleep for a little longer.

Beatrice remained quiet, allowing John to freshen up in peace. When he opened the door to exit the bathroom, he nearly ran into a woman.

“God, sorry,” he yelped. He blinked up at her, taking her somewhat familiar features in. 

This was undoubtedly Sherlock's mother. Now John understood what Sherlock had meant last night, claiming that people could never decide on whom he resembled more. 

Well, he'd definitely gotten his looks from somewhere. 

“Sorry,” he repeated. “I'm John Watson, hello.”

“I thought so,” Mrs. Holmes said, watching him with an amused sparkle in her eyes. “The strange boy living in my house. I was wondering when we would meet.”

“Yeah, Sherlock said that you usually work late and I was really tired last night-”

“Oh, don't you worry about it,” she cut him off, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He's right, my working time can be abysmal. I've got a little time to spare, though. You haven't had breakfast yet, have you?”

John shook his head. “Come along, then. We can talk over a cup of tea.”

John followed her into the kitchen, where he found Sherlock's father sitting at the table, reading.

“Ah, good morning, John,” he said as he looked up, putting the newspaper away. “Joining us for breakfast?”

“If that's alright,” John said, feeling the tips of his ears burning. He still felt a bit strange, intruding like that.

“Of course,” Mrs. Holmes said with a wave of her hands. “Any friend of Sherlock's is welcome here. Make yourself at home, dear.” 

She turned around and took on setting the table. In no time John had a cup of tea and a slice of toast with honey in front of him.

“Did you sleep well?” Sherlock's father enquired, looking concerned.

“Lovely,” John hurried to assure him. “And Sherlock was great. He went out with the doll when she started crying so I could get some rest. He really didn't have to do that.”

Sherlock's parents looked at each other over the table. They shared a smile before returning their eyes to John with a pleased smile.

“You're getting along, then?” Mrs. Holmes asked. 

John swallowed down his piece of toast and nodded. “We never really talked much before this project, but I've always liked him. And he doesn't seem to want to throw me out already, so I think we're getting along well enough. Well, at least I hope so.”

The words came without John having to think about them. He briefly wondered what it was that made talking to Sherlock's parents so easy. Easier than to his own parents in many ways. He found the answer inexplicable. Then again, talking to Sherlock was also easy, almost effortless. Maybe it just ran in the family.

“Believe me, John,” Mrs. Holmes said, watching him over her steaming mug with a strange expression. “If Sherlock didn't like you, he wouldn't let you be here. Let alone stay over.” She regarded him for another moment. “You know, he's never had a friend over before. He thinks it's fine, but it's a nice change nevertheless.”

John swallowed around a sip of tea, his face flushing. “Well, I like being his friend. I like  _him._  He's great.” He cleared his throat. “At least that's one good thing coming out of this project, I guess.”

Mrs. Holmes laughed softly. “Yes, I think it is.” She regarded Beatrice with a fond smile. “How are things going with your baby, then?”

“It's quite a lot of work.” John grinned, glancing at the doll. “I'm sure you remember it.”

“Oh, I do.” Sherlock's mother laughed as well. “And it doesn't stop once they start walking. It only gets worse from then on, in fact. It's a shame you'll miss that.” She winked at John. Mr. Holmes chuckled.

“Speaking of,” he said, looking up when footsteps sounded from the hall. “There he is.”

Sherlock shuffled through the door, acknowledging the picture of John with his parents around the breakfast table with a series of sleepy blinks.

“Sleeping Beauty rises at last,” John said with a grin, glancing at Sherlock's wild mob of hair. Sherlock only gave him a look before he slumped into the chair next to John's.

“Toast?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep. It was horribly endearing. 

John reached for the breadbasket before either of Sherlock's parents could catch him watching their son with hearts in his eyes.

“How long did Bee keep you up last night?” he asked as Sherlock took a slice of toast. Sherlock's lips twitched at the nickname.

“An hour, like you said. Then she cried again around 3am until I changed her diaper, but that was it. I expected worse."

“Well, that's an improvement.” John glanced at him from the side. “Thank you for taking care of her. I owe you one.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “I believe it's called parenting,” he said. “We're supposed to share the work. That's the deal.”

John smiled into his tea. “Alright then.”

Sherlock decided on eating another slice of toast with honey before he disappeared into the bathroom. John stayed at the table, feeling comfortable enough with his parents to finish his tea there.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he said when he got up. “And really, thanks for letting me stay here. I appreciate it a lot.”

“We're glad to have you around, John,” Mr. Holmes reassured him. Then he winked. “And I think Sherlock is, too.”

John smiled. The thought made him feel light enough to almost skip as he left the room.

* * *

“Seriously, you don't have to wait by the door for me to return,” John joked when Sherlock opened the door before he even rang the bell.

He'd stopped at home after school, insisting that it was his turn to take Beatrice with him. “Or are you already suffering from empty nest syndrome?”

Sherlock  frowned at him. “I don't do that. I don't even know what that means.”

“Of course you don't. Here, can you take her? I need to use the loo.”

Sherlock nodded. “I'll be in my room,” he said, taking Beatrice out of John's arms.

After using the bathroom John made a detour to the living room, which he hadn't gotten to examine so far. This time, he really took the time to look around. The framed pictures on the walls especially caught his eyes. 

Most of them were family portraits, photos of Sherlock and his brother as babies and later on as children. There was one picture of Sherlock's parents in younger years, smiling at the camera, their hands folded over Mrs. Holmes' swollen belly.

John stopped at a framed drawing clearly made by a child. It showed something John interpreted as a garden, with an impressive variety of colourful dots between the green lines. In the middle was a disproportionately huge bee, taking up most of the space. He spotted a signature in the corner, “W SHERLOCK, AGE 3” sprawled in capital letters – the S and E's were the wrong way around. John grinned.

“Seriously, what is it with you and bees?” he asked upon returning to Sherlock's room.

“Hm?” Sherlock was lying flat on his back with Beatrice on his chest, budging to the side when John returned. John took the hint.

“That drawing from when you were three on your living room wall- which is  _so_  adorable, by the way-” Sherlock groaned and John's grin grew wider as he lowered himself onto the bed.

“And then that over there, too.” He nodded towards the scientific figure of a honeybee that hung over the bed.

“Bees are fascinating creatures,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John didn't buy his bored tone one bit.

“Really? How so?”

Sherlock eyed him from the side for a moment. When he realised that John was actually interested, he said, “Well, for one, bees are hardwired to do certain jobs. While some of them always do the same work, regular honeybees perform several jobs in their lifetime. And their brain chemistry actually changes before they start a new one. Actually,” he went on, supporting himself on his elbows, “When aging bees perform jobs usually reserved for the younger generation, their brains stop aging. They quite literally de-age, because their brain chemistry changes to that of a younger bee again." He quirked his eyebrows. "Scientists believe that this discovery can help humanity to slow the onset of dementia. The brain of a honeybee is about the size of a sesame seed, but it has remarkable capacity to learn and remember things and is able to make complex calculations on distance travelled and foraging efficiency.”

He took a deep breath. “Not to mention that their other abilities are fascinating as well. They have 170 odorant receptors. Their sense of smell is so precise that they can differentiate hundreds of different floral varieties and tell whether a flower carried pollen or nectar from metres away. And while they usually use the sun as a compass, they're able to navigate by ploarised light on cloudy days. It's also remarkable that they appear to have personalities. Drones aren't just interchangeable. Researchers have found out that some bees seem to be more timid, while others are thrill-seeking. Some even go as far as saying that they might have, to some extent,  _feelings._ ”

Sherlock shut his mouth with a click. He looked at John with wide eyes as his stream of words caught up with him. His expression was  _so_  endearing. John's gape turned into a grin.

“Wow. You sure you want to hold off on the beekeeping for now?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Quite.”

“Right." He laughed as well. "Still, that was amazing. How you know all that, it's- well, it's amazing.” 

 _You're amazing,_  John thought, biting his lip to keep the words inside.  _And you don't even realise it._  

“And you're right. Bees _are_ fascinating. I never knew they had a brain at all, let alone one that works so interestingly.”

“Yes, it's quite... yes. That.” Sherlock looked a bit flushed, still dazed by his outburst, and John realised with a start that he  _yearned_  to kiss that expression off his face with every part of his body.

The thought hit him as he finally identified the tingling sensation his body brimmed with whenever he looked at Sherlock. The ever-present urge to be closer when he spoke, to make him laugh, smile, get his attention. The physical responses he had to Sherlock being nearby.

Oh. God.

Yes.

Alright, yes. Greg had been right all along. John had a crush. A real, infuriating, undeniable,  _massive_ crush. On Sherlock Holmes.

And maybe, maybe he'd suspected it all along. But, god, he hadn't  _known._

 _Jesus fucking Christ_.

He stared at the ceiling as he tried to keep his composure, avoiding Sherlock's eyes.

Well, his mates were going to have a laugh. Somehow, he didn't feel like laughing at all.

This was a complete mess. Of course he had to go and fall for the most unattainable person he could possibly think of. He didn't even know whether Sherlock was interested in his own gender, damn it. Or relationships at all.

And either way, he sure as hell wasn't interested in John, that much was certain. If it hadn't been for this stupid project, they probably still wouldn't be talking and John would have remained blissfully unaware of his dire situation.

And yet.

Talking to Sherlock, even just being with him, around him – it was so  _nice._  It felt good. And it was so easy.

He hadn't been bored for one minute in the time he'd spent with him. He instantly felt better when they talked. And if he was honest, Sherlock enjoying his company and having John around felt bloody damn good. Even if it was a little bittersweet. So, really, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.

He'd just enjoy what he had, as much as Sherlock wanted to give. That would be just fine. And if it wasn't, Sherlock never needed to know. Not when they'd just become friends.

John took a deep breath. “So, tell me more about those bees,” he said with a weak smile.

Best not ponder on it now. Or ever. He wasn't sure whether exposing himself to more of what had sparked the realisation was going to help with that, but he figured that he might as well take the risk.

* * *

John was sitting over his homework the next day when Sherlock, sprawled out over the bed, dropped his book onto his chest.

“John,” he said.

It took him a moment to look up. John had realised that he was already falling behind on his work that morning, so he'd spent the afternoon engrossed in his assignments. He focused his attention on Sherlock.

“Hm?”

“I forgot to mention it. Tomorrow's Friday. I've got violin lessons on Fridays, so I can't look after Beatrice then.”

“Ah.” John furrowed his brow. “That's fine. Um. Now that you say that, I just remembered. You're gonna have to take her on Saturday in exchange, alright? I've got work on Saturdays.”

“For how long?”

“Six hours.”

Sherlock sat up straight. “ _Six_  hours? You can't do that.”

John held up his hands. “Look, I'm sorry, alright? I completely forgot about it until just now. But I'm already sacrificing all my free time for this project, I can't skip work too.”

Sherlock groaned, his back hitting the mattress again as he slumped. “Can't you go on paternity leave or something?”

John sighed. “I have this job for a reason, Sherlock. I need the money. I'm really sorry, but I can't skip it.”

“Fine. I'll survive, I suppose,” Sherlock conceded, but still frowned.

John snorted at his doubtful tone. “You'd better. I'll be really cross with you if you die on me.”

Sherlock blinked, then a small smile played on his lips. “That would be most inconvenient. I shall try my hardest then.”

John just shook his head, smiling in return. “Git,” he mumbled. It sounded more like a pet name than an insult.

* * *

John took the opportunity to go home with Beatrice while Sherlock practiced. He spent an hour with his mother and Harry before he felt the familiar annoyance his family so expertly evoked in him starting to rise again. At least his father wasn't home. He excused himself not long after that, feeling more than a little relieved to have somewhere to go.

He spent a lot of time away from home, escaping the house that had made him feel claustrophobic too many times in the past. This time though, he even looked forward to where he was going, despite having parted from Sherlock only a few hours ago.

“How was your lesson?” he asked when he got back.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, giving him a once-over. “How was your visit?”

John sighed. “Not that great,” he said, then shrugged. “Let's just say that I'm glad to spend the evening with you instead of them.”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment and John could feel the questions forming in his mind, the observations coming together, if they hadn't already, waiting to get out. But in the end Sherlock kept whatever had gone through his head to himself.

“Come on in, then,” he said. “Mummy got home early today. We were just about to start cooking.”

Cooking, John found out, had little to do with producing a fancy meal, but rather catching up on time lost during the week.

Sherlock's parents stood at the kitchen counter as they seemingly decided what to put into their dinner along the way, while John and Sherlock helped out by cutting the ingredients on the table.

“I never took you for the cooking type,” John said as they slumped on Sherlock's bed after dinner.

“We don't do it often,” Sherlock said, resting a hand on his belly as he sank down beside John. “And when we do, it's usually like today. Use whatever's lying around and try to make it enjoyable.”

“Well, it worked.” John groaned. “I'm so full I can't move. I could fall asleep right now.”

“Feel free to do that,” Sherlock said. “I don't mind.”

John swallowed hard. Sherlock wouldn't invite him into his bed if he knew, he thought. He wouldn't. But for everything he did know, all the things he observed and realised and dissected with that massive brain of his, this wasn't one of them.

And maybe, if he closed his eyes he could pretend, just for a moment.

“I don't mind either.”

 _Just a minute,_ he told himself. Just one more minute of lying on this bed, Sherlock resting next to him, his breathing the only sound John could make out.

The next thing he knew, he woke with a start because Beatrice started crying. He blinked, trying to work through the disorientation clouding his mind. It was dark around him. It hadn't been dark a few moments ago, had it? He must have fallen asleep on the bed...

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered, and only then did John realise that he was still there next to him.

 _Right_ next to him.

He nearly jumped up when he realised that he'd been snuggled to Sherlock's leg as he'd slept. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks as he sat up, glad for the darkness surrounding them. He looked around.

“What the- how late is it?” he asked, deciding to ignore the accidental cuddling incident entirely.

He hadn't even been  _awake_  for it, damn it.

“Almost half past one,” Sherlock informed him.

“What? Oh god, you should have woken me. Why didn't you wake me up?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, and John could make out his frown in the dim room. “I said I didn't mind. This bed is large enough for both of us and you were tired. It's not an issue.”

“But it's  _your_  bed,” John argued, running a hand over his face. “I kept you from sleeping.”

“You really didn't. Your presence here didn't bother me in any way.” He paused. “On the contrary,” he then added, his voice softer.

John swallowed. He couldn't think of anything to say to that. “I didn't even set my alarm for tomorrow,” he mumbled after a moment, in lieu of a reply.

Sherlock handed him his phone, still rocking Beatrice in one arm.

“Thanks.”

“Don't,” Sherlock said as John moved. “I mean- you don't have to. It's fine. You can sleep here if you like.”

Before John could come up with an argument against it, he added, “You looked comfortable here.”

 _Right._ John's pulse sped up at the thought of just  _how_  comfortable he'd gotten.

“Alright,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Alright, I'll just go to the loo.”

When he returned in his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock had moved to the right side of the bed to give him more space. John got in beside him, this time slipping under the covers, and closed his eyes. “Night,” he mumbled.

“Good night, John,” came the soft reply. 

He thought that there was no way he could fall asleep with his heart racing like that, but eventually he did drift off again.

The next time he woke up, the room was lit by the morning sun. He turned his head, seeing Sherlock on his side, facing him. His full lips were parted in sleep and his dark mob of hair looked properly dishevelled. His hand was resting on the mattress, halfway across the space between them. Almost as if he was reaching for John in his sleep.

John blinked the sleepiness away, allowing himself to just take in what he saw. He was trying to commit the image to memory, all the sensations connected to it – their shared warmth under the duvet, the rhythmical breathing, the relaxed air between them – when Beatrice cooed again, a sound which had woken John in the first place.

Sherlock's face twitched. He moved a little, becoming restless as the sound disturbed his sleep. That settled it, then. John had no idea how long Sherlock had stayed up last night, and since he would have to look after the baby again until John returned from work, the least he could do was let him rest a little longer.

“It's fine, sleep,” he mumbled, taking Beatrice in one hand and his bag in the other as he left the room. It was almost time for him to get up anyway.

He changed Beatrice's diaper, then showered and gave her a bottle before preparing his own breakfast. He was so engrossed in his morning routine that he was completely startled by the hand on his shoulder. He spun around to see a tall, young man standing behind him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to get his heartbeat under control again. “Um. Who are you?”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Shouldn't it be me asking the strange teenage boy in my family's house that question?”

Ah. “You're Sherlock's brother,” John realised.

“I am, though I usually go by Mycroft Holmes. And you are Sherlock's... what, exactly?”

“I'm a friend,” John said, still startled by his sudden appearance. Then he remembered his manners. “Sorry. Hello. I'm John Watson. It's nice to meet you.” He extended his hand. Mycroft took it, still watching him with a disconcerting intensity.

“Friend,” he repeated, making it sound like an abstract concept. “I wasn't aware that my brother had any  _friends_  he brought home. Is there perhaps a happy announcement I've missed?”

John's eyes widened. Was he- what was he implying?

“I- Well, we're project partners. We have to look after a baby simulator for a few weeks. And we're getting along, so- well, I'm staying here for the time being.”

Mycroft eyed Beatrice with disdain, then returned his gaze to John. John felt completely transparent under his watchful eyes.

“I see,” he said. John wasn't quite sure what exactly he was seeing. It wasn't possible for him to have given himself away already, was it?

He turned around to finish preparing his breakfast, silently cursing the Holmes brothers and their observational skills. When he moved to sit down he realised that Mycroft had forestalled him, clearly waiting for him to join him at the table.

So John sat.

“I, ah. I made tea, if you want some.” He felt strange offering this unsettling man tea in his own house, but his manners got the better of him.

Mycroft merely nodded, standing up to fix himself a cup. “So, John,” he said as he sat down again. “How are things at home?”

John nearly choked on his toast. He swallowed, then took a sip of his still too hot tea before replying.

“Um. Fine. It's fine.”

They stared at each other for a moment, both knowing that it wasn't. 

 _It's not fair,_  John thought.  _How does he know about that? And if he knows, does everyone else?_

He never spoke about his home situation. Speaking about it wouldn't change it, and John was a very private person.

“How did you-” he began, suddenly desperate to know what had given it away.

Mycroft cocked his head, understanding dawning on his face as he seemed to read John like an open book.

Damn it. Now he _had_ given himself away.

“If there's something that can be done, John," Mycroft began, "I hope you know that there are ways-”

“No,” John interrupted, shaking his head. “No. Nothing to be done. It's nothing like that. It's just-”

He searched for a fitting word and failed, but Mycroft nodded nevertheless.

 _“Fine,”_ he supplied, repeating John's own words back to him.

“Yes.” John swallowed, then returned his attention to his toast. They both remained silent after that, and John was strangely grateful that even though Mycroft already seemed to know, or know  _something,_  at least he didn't make John talk about it.

They looked at each other for a moment when John finished the last bite.

“You better get going,” Mycroft said with a strange half-smile that looked nothing like the hesitant, charming expression Sherlock's face so often displayed. “You'll be late for work.”

John didn't even bother asking how he knew about  _that._  

“Right,” he mumbled, putting his dishes away before he picked up Beatrice to return her to Sherlock's room. “I'll see you around, I suppose,” he said with a nod.

“I'm sure you will.”

Great. Because that wasn't unsettling at all.

* * *

“Hey honey, I'm home,” John called out when he came back that afternoon. His heart jumped stupidly in his chest when he saw Sherlock sitting at his desk, his back to John. It had only been a few hours, for god's sake.

Sherlock snorted at the greeting and looked up. Their eyes met and he quirked an eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” he said, “honey because I like bees. Very clever.”

“Isn't it just.” John smirked. “How are you? Any symptoms indicating your imminent passing?”

“None I can think of. But you can examine me later to make sure,  _Doctor._ ”

 _Don't give me any ideas,_ John thought. He blinked hard to drive away the images Sherlock's words had conjured in his mind.

“And how's our little Bee?” he asked to distract himself. “Did everything work out alright?”

“She’s been quiet. Very quiet, in fact. Hasn’t cried since you left this morning.”

“What?” John threw a concerned glance at her as he shrugged off his jacket. “Is she- I don’t know, is she okay?”

“I don’t know, how am I supposed to tell?  _She’s_  a robot.”

“Sherlock! I mean, did she do anything else? Any sounds at all?”

“None I can recall.”

“Uh.”

John stepped closer, poking the doll. Then he shook her slightly. Nothing.

“Is this... is this supposed to happen?” he mumbled. Surely they wouldn't have programmed her to fall ill, would they?

Sherlock seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

“Maybe she’s sick,” he said, stepping behind John to peek over his shoulder.

“I don't know. I don't remember seeing anything about that in the handbook, do you? I mean, they would tell us if she could do that, wouldn't they?”

Sherlock studied the doll for a moment. “I could take a look at the programming,” he considered, “probably change it if I-”

“You are  _not_  messing with the programming, Sherlock,” John interrupted him. He turned around to stab his chest with a finger. “That is unacceptable. And wrong. You wouldn't mess with the DNA of your child, would you?”

Sherlock looked exasperated. “John, surely you realise that this isn't an actual infant and there's no DNA-”

“Shut up. Just. Shut up.” John took a deep breath. “This is supposed to be realistic, yeah? So we're gonna keep it that way.”

Sherlock stared down at his face, and John suddenly realised that they were almost chest to chest. He didn't back off, telling himself something about having to make a point and almost believing it. Sherlock, on his part, made no attempt to force more space between them either.

“If you insist,” he said. “But if she's dead and we get a bad grade on this, it's not my fault.”

“She's not  _dead,_  Sherlock!” John turned around again. He chewed on his lip as he looked at the doll.

“We could pick her up and let her head fall back,” Sherlock suggested, stepping even closer to John. His back was comfortably resting against Sherlock's chest now. He swallowed, trying to focus on the task at hand.

The doll. Yes. That. Very important.

“That's made her cry every time so far.”

“And it's also taken us ages to calm her afterwards every time,” John pointed out, fighting the urge to lean backwards.

“John. Do you want to know whether she's alright or not?”

He sighed. “Fine. Alright. I'll do it.”

He bent to pick the doll up, not supporting her head. A starling cry ripped through the expectant silence.

John breathed out a relieved sigh.

“Thank god,” he mumbled, cradling Beatrice to his chest before turning around again. “You are a genius.”

Sherlock frowned at the crying bundle. “I wouldn't say that. Now we have to deal with that insufferable noise again, whereas before there was blissful silence.”

John's lips curved into a smug smile. “No, you  _are._  And because you're the proper genius who suggested it, you can take her.”

He pressed Beatrice against Sherlock until his arms came up to support her.

“There you go,” John said, grinning up at Sherlock as he patted his chest. His hand remained there a little longer than strictly necessary, but neither of them cared to mention it.

“How was work?” Sherlock asked after a moment, clearly determined to ignore the crying doll in his arms.

“Alright,” John said, slumping onto the bed. “Bit exhausting. I just need a break before I can take her, yeah?”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock followed him to the bed, nudging him to move and make space for him. They fidgeted around until they were both comfortably resting.

“Did you have a nice morning then?” John asked after a moment.

“It's better now that Mycroft's gone again and you're back,” Sherlock replied with a huff.

John chewed on his lip. Of course he hadn't forgotten about his own encounter with the elder Holmes brother that morning. However, he still hadn't decided whether he should tell Sherlock about it or not. But now that he'd brought it up already...

“You know, I ran into your brother this morning,” he said, turning his head to get a better look at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he mumbled. Then a concerned expression came over his features. “What did he say to you?”

“Not much, actually.” John shrugged. “Hardly anything, really. It was more the way he said it.”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “Tell me,” he demanded.

John sighed. “First he asked me who I was. Said you don't usually bring friends home.” He decided to leave out the part where he'd implied their relationship to be of a different nature. He didn't need Sherlock to think about that and then make another one of his brilliant observations, thank you very much.

“Then he asked how things were for me at home. I don't even know how- anyway, he offered his help. I said there was no need, and then he let it be.”

Silence reigned between them for a moment. Then Sherlock spat out, “I'm going to _kill_ him.”

“There's no need for fratricide,” John hurried to say. “It's not that big of a deal, really. He wasn't rude. He meant well. And he doesn't even know me, so it's actually quite nice. If somewhat unsettling.”

“It's not  _nice._  He's insufferable. He's incapable of keeping his abnormally large nose out of other people's business,” Sherlock argued, staring daggers at the ceiling.

“It's fine, Sherlock,” John insisted, reaching out to touch his arm on impulse. Sherlock finally looked at him. “Really. You don't need to get more worked up about this than I am. I'm okay.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his face before he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. John took his hand from his body with a twinge of regret.

Sherlock kept watching him as they sat in silence, and John felt it coming before Sherlock even opened his mouth. He knew he could still change the subject before he started, set the boundary where he usually set it.

He did nothing, waiting in silence for Sherlock to speak.

“John,” he began eventually. “About your parents.” He stopped, searching John's face for a reaction. John didn't turn to look at him, but hummed as a permission for him to go on.

“You don't have to tell me anything, obviously.” He hesitated again. “But you can. If that's something you want.”

He sounded like he didn't believe that it was something John could want at all. Maybe it was that fact that moved John to say those next words. Maybe it was that this was Sherlock, and John had never felt as comfortable with anyone as he did with him.

“My parents have never loved each other,” he said, startling them both with the confession. He took a deep breath. “I mean, they must have, at one point. But by the time Harry and I came around there was nothing left of that. You know that quote, something along the lines of “the most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother”? Yeah, it's true. And ours never did that. All those perfect families we saw in the movies, or when we were at our mates' houses, Harry and I never got that. Not that he's a great dad in other ways either.” He huffed. “Neither of my parents are really up for the Parents of the Year Award.”

Sherlock gave a hesitant smile. “Well, neither are mine, if it's any consolation.”

John chuckled. “No, but it's- well, from what I've seen, it's different. They don't smother you with what  _they_  want, what  _they_  think is best for you. They try to get it right, don't they? I mean, my parents probably tried too, but they messed up royally there. And now they're so caught up in their own mess that they don't even- I don't know, they don't really _see_ us anymore.”

Sherlock nodded considerately. He moved his hand so that it rested against John's, signaling that it was alright to continue. Their hands were still touching when John spoke again. Somehow the words came easier that way.

“I don't know why they aren't divorced yet. I confronted my mother about it once and she claimed that they were staying together because of Harry and me. As if we wouldn't be better off with them split up. I think it's bullshit. They're incapable of change. They're stuck in their own rut and they've accepted this as their life. It's messed up. They're messing all of us up.”

He swallowed. “You know, I can't remember a time when they didn't fight daily, but over the years it just got worse. Hearing the same shit every day... No wonder Harry's started drinking more and more. She says she's got it under control, but- well, I've heard that before, in this family.”

“Your father is an alcoholic.” It was more a statement than a question. Somehow the impartial way Sherlock said it made it easier to hear.

“My father has many issues with himself and his life,” John said, pressing his lips together. Sherlock didn't push it.

John stared at their arms, the point where their skin connected, trying to work out what he was feeling.

This should be huge, shouldn't it? He'd never exposed this part of himself to anyone who didn't already know. But he didn't _feel_ exposed. He'd given it up willingly. If anything, he felt a little lighter for it.

“I've never said this out loud,” he reflected. “Never talked about this to anyone besides Harry. Never wanted to.”

Sherlock blinked at him, a look of worry coming over his face. A crease appeared on his forehead. “I'm sorry if I pushed you,” he said, withdrawing his arm from where it touched John's. “I didn't mean to-”

John caught his wrist before he could move away entirely.

“You didn't,” he interrupted in a firm voice. “I'm not great with words. I'm not. I didn't mean to- what I'm trying to say is, with you, it's- different. It's so different, Sherlock. You make me  _want_  to trust you. You make me want to tell you things about me nobody else knows or understands. Because I know that you would." He frowned. "Is that weird?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I don't know,” he said, his eyes travelling over John's face. “I- thank you. For trusting me. And John- that feeling, it's- well, it's mutual.” He raised his gaze to meet John's eyes.

John swallowed. “Guess we're lucky to have figured that out, then.”

They continued to look at each other, but somehow it didn't feel awkward or strange. If anything, it was comforting. Exciting. It felt  _right._

They sat with each other for a long time, gradually drifting off to other topics, talking well into the afternoon.

John didn't realise that his hand was still closed around Sherlock's wrist until much later on. But Sherlock didn't say a word about it, and so John didn't either.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, you wanna come over this afternoon? Molly's looking after Jack and I'm dying to get some practice again.”

“Sorry, mate, I can't. Sherlock and I made plans to look for some old shop in Soho after lunch.”

“Ah. Right, of course.” Greg grinned. “You and Sherlock. The inseparable unity.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you've gotten a bit attached at the hip, haven't you? Before we got the babies you never even talked, and now you've gone all... _married._ ” He drew out the last word, giving John a smug look. John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, save it, Greg. We're just friends.” Greg's smirk told him that he wasn't convinced at all.

Well, he supposed they _had_ gotten rather close in a really short time.

“Friends who spend every waking minute together, sure. Just dudes being buds.”

Greg yelped when John shoved his elbow into his side. “Careful,” he said, still grinning, putting a protective hand near the baby strapped to his chest. “Don't let it out on my son.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” John insisted. Greg crossed his arms with a smug expression.

 _“I don't know, Greg. I feel like we might get along. I hope we do, anyway,”_ he mimiced in a high-pitched tone.

“Oh, piss off, Greg!” John's ears burned with embarrassment. “How the hell was I supposed to know that it would be like- this?”

“I told you so,” Greg said in a sing-song voice. Then he gave him a friendly nudge into the side. “Hey, just enjoy it. It's nice to see you so relaxed. Both of you.” John huffed.

“Oh look,” Greg then changed the subject, craning his neck, “there they are.”

 _Thank god,_ John thought. He really didn't want to be taunted by Greg while waiting for Sherlock, Molly and Mike to finish their lesson any longer.

“Hey,” Greg said, beaming at Molly as they now joined them. Molly beamed right back. John almost rolled his eyes, but then realised that he was also beaming at Sherlock.

At least Greg hadn't seen that.

“How was chemistry?” he asked Sherlock, smiling up at him.

“Boring,” Sherlock said, peeking at Beatrice in John's arms. “Although the break from all the crying was nice. How has she been?”

“Quiet as a mouse,” John replied. “I'm starving, though. Is everyone ready to go? Mike, what about Sarah?”

“She's looking after the baby right now.” Mike looked relieved. “I'll meet her after lunch.”

“Alright, let's go then,” Molly said, blinking up at Greg with a shy smile before leading the way.

They had lunch at a small place not far from their school. It was well-known among the students, with its cheap and delicious dishes from all over the world. John always enjoyed going there whenever his budget allowed him.

Today was Thai day.

John ordered Gaeng Daeng – he never could say no to a red curry – and dug into it as soon as he got it.

“Oh my god.” He put a hand on Sherlock's arm. “You remember that curry from the Thai place we went to on Tuesday? You've got to try this. It's even better.”

They'd gone into the city that night, desperately needing some air, taking turns at carrying Beatrice in a wrap like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. They lived in London after all, and stranger things had happened.

John had shown Sherlock his favourite Thai restaurant and Sherlock had dragged John to his favourite bookshop in return. Beatrice had been miraculously quiet most of the day. John still smiled when he thought back to it.

“Alright.” Sherlock waited, looking at him expectantly.

John spiked a piece of meat on his fork and dragged it through the sauce once before holding it up. Sherlock leaned forwards, opening his mouth as he blinked at John.

John watched his mesmerizing lips close around the fork, then pull back slowly.

Sherlock chewed with his eyes locked on John's the entire time. When he swallowed, John traced the movement of his bobbing Adam's apple with his gaze.

“The sauce is better, but I liked the vegetables from the other restaurant more.”

“True,” John conceded. He licked his lips, then spiked a second piece on his fork. “Another?”

Sherlock nodded, repeating the procedure. John swallowed, averting his eyes only when he started feeling a little hot.

Then he caught Greg's gaze from the side. His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline as he watched them, but at least he refrained from commenting.

“Here,” Sherlock said, catching John's attention again as he pushed his plate towards him. “Try mine.”

John did. “That's great,” he said, picking another bit of Sherlock's fried rice off his plate. Sherlock watched him intently, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Switch?” he asked.

“Sure.”

John deliberately didn't look at Greg for the remainder of lunch. When he'd finished his food he took out his phone, snapping a picture of Sherlock with Beatrice on his lap before he noticed.

For the report, he told himself. Definitely for the report.

They sat together for a while longer before Greg and Molly's baby started crying. The group dissolved soon after that.

“Weird,” John commented as he helped Sherlock put Beatrice in the baby wrap. “She's been really quiet today. I hope this lasts for a while.”

“So do I,” Sherlock said, peeking at the doll with apprehension. “We'll see. Ready to go?”

“Ready,” John said and let Sherlock lead the way.

* * *

Beatrice's calmness did not last. She started crying soon after Sherlock and John returned home for dinner and refused to be calmed down. They tried John's chip, the bottle, a fresh diaper – twice, in case the sensors didn't register it – but nothing helped.

“I'm going insane,” John groaned, rocking her back and forth for the millionth time. “I was going to go to bed early tonight. I need to be able to study tomorrow.”

“If you want to sleep now I can take her outside,” Sherlock suggested. He was resting on the bed, his long figure stretched out, an arm thrown across his face. “I'll wake you in a few hours.”

“Absolutely not,” John said. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but if you stay inside the house she's gonna wake up your parents, and if you go outside you'll catch a cold. No, don't look at me like that. It's raining buckets and even _you_ get sick. I won't have it.”

Sherlock removed his arm from over his face, looking unimpressed.

“As you wish,” he remarked, glancing at John. “Come here, at least,” he then said. “I can't watch you standing over there anymore. She won't shut up any time soon, so you might as well get comfortable.”

“Comfortable is relative when a screaming baby robot is attached to you,” John muttered, but got onto the bed anyway. He put Beatrice between them, careful not to drop her head, then let his back hit the mattress. They both stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“I used to scream all the time as a baby,” Sherlock said. John turned his head to look at him. “At least that's what my parents tell me. Mycroft was a quiet child, barely ever made a sound. But I demanded attention.”

John smiled softly. “Mhh," he hummed. "I guess you've always had something to say.”

He tried to imagine Sherlock as a baby, a toddler, then a younger schoolboy. He wondered if he'd always been like this - so full of force, thoughtfulness, intent.

“What are you thinking about?”

John blinked to find Sherlock watching him, studying his features with interest.

“You,” John said, licking his lips under Sherlock's heavy gaze. “As a kid. I can't really imagine it, is all.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I don't think there's much to imagine. Mummy says I haven't changed that much. Apparently I conducted 'experiments' in the garden.” He glanced at John from the side. “I almost ate a worm once. Mummy just so stopped me from doing it. I'd already cut it in half by the time she found me.”

John pulled a face. “Gross.”

Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

“Well, I'm glad you grew out of that.”

He thought for a moment. “I don't have anything as nasty as that to share, but Harry and I did bake the occasional mud cake,” he said. The memories brought a smile to his face. “And I think Harry even tried one once.”

Sherlock snorted. “How is that any less nasty? Do you know how much bacteria mud contains? Not to mention the amount of insects living in soil.”

“No, but I'm sure you could tell me. That wasn't a challenge, by the way.” Sherlock shut his mouth with a click and John laughed.

“What else have you got?” he then asked, watching him expectantly. “Come on, out with it.”

Sherlock sighed. “Well,” he started, “there was the one time I accidentally set fire to Mycroft's jacket-”

“You what?” John spluttered. “ _Accidentally?_ Sure, yeah. Am I supposed to believe that?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“I couldn't possibly tell you what to believe, John. I was young and... unaware of the flammability of cloth. And Mycroft happened to be standing in my way as I carried a lighter. I'll let you draw your conclusions.”

“Yeah, right.” John snorted. “Wait, was he _wearing_ the jacket?”

John rolled onto his side as Sherlock started telling him the story, supporting his head on his hand. They spent over an hour like that, talking over Beatrice's crying and through the progressing night. John told Sherlock about the time he'd gotten lost in the city. Sherlock told John about the time he'd 'gotten lost' at Trafalgar Square during a school trip and then proceeded to spend the day at the National Gallery instead of returning to school by himself.

John had just finished the story of his first broken bone when Beatrice's crying began to change. They both fell silent as the doll made a faint cooing sound, then stopped at once.

For a moment there was nothing but blissful quietness.

“Thank god,” John whispered, running a hand over his face. “Thank _god._ ”

“Let's just hope it lasts,” Sherlock mumbled, carefully moving around Beatrice until he was resting more comfortably. John did the same, then closed his eyes.

“We should probably try to sleep,” he mumbled, stifling a yawn.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, his soft voice washing over John as he sank deeper into the pillow. “Good night, John.”

John was already drifting off. He didn't realise that he'd slept in Sherlock's bed again until the next morning.

* * *

John was maybe, possibly, _probably_ a tiny bit stressed.

It may have been the last-minute assignments he'd gotten on top of his other work this week, or the phone call he'd received from his father earlier, or the fact that he hadn't slept properly in days and the situation was really starting to bug him as a whole.

Either way, he was a little irritated.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was completely calm. He was once again stretched out on the bed, apparently not buried under a mountain of work like John was, seeing as he was typing away on his phone and had been doing so for the past hour. He looked alert, calm, and gorgeous as ever, and John hated it. He really bloody hated it.

“ _Fuck,”_ he ground out, all but snapping his laptop shut. “Fuck this. Fuck it.”

Sherlock glanced up from his phone. “Problem?”

“Nope.” The look he gave Sherlock spoke volumes. “Where do you get that idea? I'm great. Everything's great.”

Sherlock looked unimpressed.

“I mean, why wouldn't it be?" John continued. "I'm only running on about three hours of sleep for god knows how many days in a row and my teachers decided to give us yet another assignment, because we're not stressed enough as it is with school and work and this stupid project, like it's a totally normal thing to do!”

He hadn't noticed his voice rising until he'd finished the sentence. His chest heaved as he stared at Sherlock. Sherlock returned the look with quirked eyebrows.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“No! I-” John halted when he saw the amused smile tugging at Sherlock's lips, and his anger deflated at once.

He was being ridiculous, wasn't he?

He let out a deep sigh. “Yes.”

Sherlock sat up, wordlessly signaling him to come sit with him. John crossed the room, slumping down beside him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Sorry,” he said. “God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to let it out on you.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock said, watching him from the side. “Feeling any better?”

“A bit,” John admitted. “Still.”

He turned his head to look at him. “How the hell are you so calm?” he asked with a groan. “You can't have slept any longer than I did.”

“I have practice,” Sherlock said.

“With crying baby simulators that keep you up all night?”

“With little sleep. I don't usually sleep that much anyway. And sometimes I get distracted and stay up all night.”

John frowned. “You get distracted from sleeping _all night?_ That's not healthy.”

“If you say so, Doctor.”

“Oh, save it,” John mumbled, but he felt a smile tugging at his lips.

Sherlock hesitated, then said, “John. I could play the violin for you, if you wanted. I find that it... relaxes me, and it helps with sleeping.”

John blinked at him. “You'd do that?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” John said, “I mean, if you're up for it. That's... very nice. I mean, you've got a point. I should probably just accept that my sleep schedule is messed up and get a few hours here and there whenever I can.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock agreed. Then he leaped up from the bed and fetched his violin.

“I've never heard you play before,” John mumbled through a yawn, making himself more comfortable. It wasn't even a question anymore that he'd sleep there at this point. _Thank god he has such a bloody large bed,_ he thought. Not that he minded. Not at all.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I don't usually have someone to play for.”

He gave John a strange look he couldn't quite interpret. He blinked at Sherlock, wondering whether he'd say something, but in the end he just closed his eyes and began to play.

And it was beautiful.

No, more than that, John decided. Sherlock looked gorgeous when he played. John imagined that he could easily start a career as a violinist. The instrument was like another part of him, an extension of his body that created the most beautiful melody.

The piece was nothing John was familiar with, but god, it was lovely. Sherlock produced the gentlest sounds on the violin, playing slow, deliberate notes. The tender, soft melody embosomed John and pulled at his insides. He let out a soft breath as the music drained the pent-up stress from him and he relaxed into the covers.

Sherlock looked completely lost to the world. He swayed gently to the rhythm. His face, turned to John as he played, was a perfect image of concentration. John allowed himself to watch, really watch him for a while before he let sleep take him.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, knowing that it would go unheard. The word was drowned out by the music, and so he found the courage to continue, “You're beautiful, Sherlock.”

Then he closed his eyes, shaking his head at himself, and stopped trying to keep himself awake. It wasn't long before the music lulled him to a gentle sleep.

* * *

John's second weekend at Sherlock's house was fast approaching. John knew that the two weeks he and Sherlock had agreed on were coming to a close. He also knew that Sherlock deliberately hadn't brought up the subject again. And if he was honest, he didn't want him to. John's father wasn't home most nights anyway, but all the other arguments still stood. 

And he liked it here. He liked getting to be away from home for a while. He liked Sherlock's family and he liked living with him. Being close to him all the time, in a space he felt relaxed and safe in.

So John didn't bring it up either.

He also didn't bring up the fact that him and Sherlock sharing a bed seemed to have become a regular occurrence. As long as Sherlock didn't mind - and he'd assured him time and time again that he didn't - it was all fine, wasn't it?

They were lounging on the bed again on Saturday night, Sherlock with his laptop, John with a textbook. When Beatrice decided to demand attention with a startling cry, they let out a simultaneous groan.

“Great.” John sighed. He glanced at the clock. Under normal circumstances he'd get ready for bed soon; it was close to midnight and he was tired from work. “Another one of those nights, I suppose.”

Well, there was nothing for it. He slipped from the bed, taking Beatrice into his arms.

“Shh,” he mumbled as he opened her romper suit, pressing his ID chip into the slot on her back. She kept crying, but he hadn't expected anything else. He knew how it went by now.

“It's okay,” he muttered, rocking her back and forth. “It's fine.” He carried her around the room, stopping at the window as he caught a glimpse of the night sky.

“Oh, wow. Well, at least there's a nice view in it for us,” he remarked.

He heard Sherlock closing his laptop, but didn't turn around. Soon he felt the soft touch of his hand on his shoulder as he stepped behind him.

“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “I haven't seen that many stars in a while.”

His words were like a soft breath against John's neck. John took a deep breath, nodding in silence.

“It's a clear night,” he said eventually.

“Do you want to go outside?”

John turned around. “What?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

“I... yeah, alright?”

Sherlock smiled and turned around. “Take your jacket with you,” he said as he collected the blankets he kept in his room. “You might need it later.”

“You- weren't you working on something?” John asked, but moved to grab his jacket anyway.

Sherlock waved his hand. “Not important. Come on.”

John followed him, Beatrice in one hand, his jacket in the other. They sneaked past the bedroom until they reached the backdoor. Sherlock fiddled with the key for a moment before holding the door open for John.

John stepped outside and took a deep breath as the cool night air hit his face. It wasn't uncomfortable, not too cold. With their blankets they'd be just fine.

Sherlock walked past him, spreading two covers on the grass. Then he squatted down, turning on a garden lamp John hadn't noticed until then. The faint glow of the light added a sense of comfortableness to the atmosphere.

Sherlock sank down onto the blankets, blinking up at John through his lashes. The dim moonlight illuminated his face in a strange play of dark and white.

John took the picture presented to him in, and his breath caught in his throat at how _romantic_ it was.

Did Sherlock know how romantic it was? Had he chosen to go out here with John despite it? Because of it?

“Alright?” Sherlock asked quietly, bringing John back to the moment.

John nodded in silence. He lowered himself next to Sherlock, putting Beatrice on the blanket beside him before he lay back, resting his head on one arm. Sherlock joined him a moment later, and they both just looked up for a while.

“Thank god you don't have any neighbours who are sensitive to noise,” John said eventually, breaking the silence.

Sherlock chuckled. “The old woman next door is hard of hearing. Nobody else is close enough to hear anything.”

“Good.”

John was painfully aware of his heart thumping in his chest. He licked his lips, trying to calm down with deliberate breaths.  He'd rested beside Sherlock countless times now. Why was this so different?

Why did this feel so intimate?

Because there _was_ an undeniable intimacy to it, John thought. To lie here with him, under the night sky, so close that he could hear his breathing, even over Beatrice's crying. Even over his own heartbeat rustling in his ears.

Neither of them spoke, and John lost himself in the moment. It almost felt like he was waking up from a trance when Beatrice's crying ebbed away.

“Oh,” he said, the quiet sound appearing loud in the sudden silence.

Sherlock sighed softly and John turned his head to look at him. He hoped that he wouldn't want to go back inside now. This was special, somehow. He didn't want it to end.

“Can we stay here?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

Sherlock blinked. “Of course,” he said, his voice sounding even deeper than usual in the darkness.

John watched the light change on his features as he turned his head. They looked foreign in the dim light, strange, and John yearned to reach out and touch them, trace them with his fingers, feel them until he knew the shape of Sherlock's face by heart.

Sherlock was watching him with an unfathomable look in his eyes, and John wondered what was going through that massive brain of his. Wondered if he'd ever get to find out. If he'd ever get to know the real Sherlock. All of him.

He wanted to. Desperately.

“Sherlock...” Again he was surprised by the word leaving his mouth. He trailed off, unable to think of an ending to the sentence he'd started.

“Yes?”

John took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?” His voice sounded a little rough.

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded, watching him attentively as John struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“You- why do you never say anything in class?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, clearly taken by surprise by the question.

John chewed on his lower lip, then added, more quietly, “You would blow everyone away if you did. I know it.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he seemed to think about that. “I don’t need to impress them,” he said after a while. He didn't sound affronted, only thoughtful.

“No,” John agreed. “You don't. But you could. Oh, how you could.” He licked his lips as he looked at him. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. “You don’t need to accommodate them either, you know.”

Sherlock blinked, then turned his head away to stare up at the sky. John watched him as he thought it over.

“I don’t accommodate them,” he finally said, his brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t think,” he added, more quietly.

On impulse, John stretched out his hand to brush against Sherlock’s. His heart beat faster when Sherlock turned it around, meeting John’s fingers with his. It was a light touch, not quite holding on, but too deliberate to brush off. John swallowed as he took hold of them, his fingers intertwining with Sherlock’s almost naturally.

“It’s fine,” he said and wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

He cleared his throat. “Just...” He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes as he spoke.

“Sherlock, I don’t- presume to know you, _really_ know who you are, but I’ve gotten to know a bit of you over the past two weeks and-”

He struggled for words, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd never been great with feelings or words, or both at the same time, but he needed to get this out. To make Sherlock understand.

“You don’t even know, you’re _radiant_ when you’re- just you. When you don’t hold back. It's like- you’re a force of nature.”

Right. That wasn’t over the top at all.

 _Way to give yourself away,_ John thought dryly. But Sherlock didn’t move away, so he picked up where he’d stopped.

“Just promise me something, okay? Whenever you feel like you need to hold back - don’t. Don’t hold back. Your feelings, your thoughts, it’s all- valid.” He swallowed hard. “Took me a while to figure that out myself. Just don’t hold back who you are. You have every right to be you. Unashamedly and unapologetically.”

Sherlock swallowed, staring at the sky in silence for a while, but the grip he had on John's hand told him that he was still with him. John held on tightly.

When Sherlock turned his head to look at him, his features partly illuminated by the moonlight, he said, “John.” Then he stopped again.

“You know me better than anyone else, John. Better than anyone inside that house and certainly better than everyone outside of it, full stop. This isn’t- you know-” He took a deep breath. “I don’t have friends.”

John swallowed past the tight feeling in his throat. When he squeezed Sherlock's hand, he reciprocated the touch immediately.

“Well, you’ve got one now. And I'm not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

“I don't. Want you to go, that is.”

John smiled. “Good,” he simply said.

Sherlock watched him again. “And I promise,” he added more quietly. “As long as you promise the same.”

The smallest of smiles played on his lips. “You’re quite the 'force of nature’ yourself.”

John elbowed Sherlock’s side, joining in when he started to giggle. Yet he was glad for the darkness surrounding them, concealing the faint blush on his cheeks.

“I'll make sure to remember that,” John said when they'd fallen silent again.

“I can remind you, if you forget,” Sherlock said, and John thought that if he wasn't lying down, he would probably kiss Sherlock right this moment. Kiss him, without a doubt.

Instead, he settled for rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's hand. “That would be lovely,” he said, feeling a little breathless.

Lovely, he thought, was a really good way to describe this. Lying under the stars on such a brilliant night. Holding the hand of the boy he'd fallen for so incredibly fast. Being so full of contentment, affection, yearning, and the sweetest kind of pain of not being able to go any further. Of being so close, and yet unable to take the last step.

 _But that's alright,_ he thought. _It's still lovely._ So very, very lovely.

“Lovely,” he whispered again, for good measure, and Sherlock hummed in approval.

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, the piece Sherlock plays for John is "Spiegel im Spiegel" by Arvo Pärt. It's gorgeous and my go-to piece when I can't sleep or need to calm down!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved John's birthday to the summer for the sake of this story!

Something changed after the night they'd spent under the stars. Or maybe it had always been there, and John just hadn't seen it. He'd thought he'd feel weird in the morning, having held Sherlock's hand for hours and opened up to him the way he had. But Sherlock seemed completely relaxed, and so John allowed himself to be calm about it, too.

And though they didn't hold hands again, they just kept on touching.

At first he thought he imagined it. But Sherlock really did seem to have lost any remaining inhibitions about invading his personal space. Not that John minded. More often than not, he found him putting a hand on his shoulder, his arm, the small of his back as he stepped behind him.

John, for his part, took that as permission to reciprocate the touches. They already felt natural to him, and he only realised then how much he'd held himself back before.

Sharing a bed was a regular occurrence by now. Somehow Sherlock's parents seemed to have picked up on it, since John's improvised bed on the floor disappeared one day, never to return. He blushed at the thought of them knowing, but seeing as they hadn't said a word about it, and their sleeping arrangement really was of an entirely innocent nature, he found that it was quite alright.

And they were alright, too. More than alright, in fact.

Nothing between them was awkward. Every new experience they shared just felt like the natural progression of the relationship they were always meant to have.

And while John had previously been convinced that his feelings were completely one-sided, he was now in an exhilarating state of  _maybe._ A state of  _not quite something, but definitely not nothing._

Because maybe Sherlock didn't do relationships (and John still wasn't sure on that front). But he sure as hell did more-than-casual touches, flirty smiles, intimate conversations, opening up - hell, even stargazing in the garden.

And he did all that with  _him_. So who the hell knew what else he was up for?

“What are you smiling about?” 

John was ripped from his thoughts as Greg's voice got through to him. He hadn't even noticed that he was watching him until he spoke.

“What?”

“You're smiling,” Greg repeated. “Why?”

 _Because I was thinking about Sherlock and how much I want to kiss him_  didn't strike John as a good thing to say. Not with most of his friends - including Sherlock - sitting next to him, anyway.

“Nothing,” he lied, only smiling at Greg's disbelieving face.

“Well, I thought it might be because of the birthday party you're planning, but if you're not up for that...”

“Oh, John, it's your birthday soon?” Molly asked, her face lighting up with excitement.

“It is.” John shook his head with a laugh. “Believe it or not, with everything that's been going on, I almost forgot it myself. My own eighteenth birthday!”

“Good thing you remembered in time,” Mike said, clapping him on the back. “What was that about a party you mentioned?”

“Well, it's next Saturday, so I thought I'd use the opportunity to do something. My aunt has a garden house not far from here that I can use. It won't be anything big, just some games, something to drink, that sort of stuff.”

“Sounds perfect,” Mike said. Greg nodded his approval.

“Who's invited?” Janine piped up. “Can we come too?” 

She glanced at Irene, who sat on her desk with her legs crossed and a hand on Janine's shoulder. “We haven't gotten a proper night out since we got the baby. We could use some fun, couldn't we?”

“Agreed.” Irene's eyes twinkled. “We're not really feeling the stay-at-home-mum vibe. So, are we invited?”

“Sure, of course.” John shrugged. “All of you can come, as long as you don't bring ten unexpected guests each. But I demand that you all use your babysitter bracelets, because I'm  _not_  throwing a baby party.”

Greg clapped him on the shoulder. “You got it, mate.” He exchanged a look with Molly.

“My mum could look after Jack for the night,” she suggested, and Greg grinned.

“Perfect!”

“Great,” John said with a relieved smile. “I'll let you know when I've got it all figured out.”

He didn't think anything of Sherlock having kept quiet during the whole conversation. In fact, he only realised it when he mentioned it again that afternoon.

“I know I forgot to tell you about it until now, but we can figure something out for Bee," John said. "Harry will want to come to the party, but I'm sure we could ask your parents to babysit.”

“There's no need for that. I can look after her,” Sherlock said. John turned around with a frown.

“What do you mean? I said that I don't want any babies at the party, remember? It's really no big deal if we use the babysitter bracelet for-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. “I'll look after her. It's fine.”

John blinked at him. “You... oh. You- don't want to come?” 

He tried to ignore the sting of disappointment he felt at that, and failed. He'd assumed- well.

Maybe he just shouldn't assume things about Sherlock.

His face seemed to display his feelings before John remembered to keep a neutral expression. Sherlock pressed his lips together as he looked at him, a crease appearing on his forehead. 

“John, I- I never expected to be invited to any parties. It's alright.”

“What? Why the hell not?” John was completely bewildered. “Of course you're invited, Sherlock! You're- well, you're the best friend I have right now.” 

He hadn't meant to say that out loud, but now realised the truth behind it. Just a little over two weeks, and already he was this important to John. How had he gotten so caught up in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes?

Or rather, how could he not have?

“You're my best friend,” he repeated for good measure, and because Sherlock looked completely startled by the declaration. “And this isn't just any party, it's my eighteenth birthday. I want you to be there.”

Sherlock blinked a couple of times at the unexpected statement, and a faint blush rose in his cheeks. Then his face took on a pleading look. 

“John, you don't-” He broke off, taking a deep breath. “I'm flattered, honestly, but I don't- I don't  _do_  parties. I just don't. I've never- I can't do these things. It's- not me.”

John's disappointment deflated at once as he watched him struggle for words.

“Oh.” 

Now he almost felt bad for having pushed it.  _Of course_  parties weren't Sherlock's thing. He should have known that. 

“Of course. Right. I'm sorry, I didn't- well, I just want you to know that I'd want you there. But only if you were comfortable. So. There.”

“John.” Sherlock almost looked anxious. “You have nothing to apologise for. I'm flattered, really. That's- I've never been anybody's- best friend. And I've never been someone people invited to their parties.”

“People are idiots,” John pointed out, relieved when the comment put a small smile on Sherlock's face. He looked down, trying to hide his own.

“True,” Sherlock agreed. Then he sighed. “I'm sorry, John.”

John looked up. His involuntary smile grew at the sight of Sherlock's expression. He'd never seen him so apologetic before.

“Don't be,” he said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. “It's who you are. I wouldn't want you to change that.”

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. “Alright.”

“But I'd still like to see you on my birthday,” John continued. “I meant that. You are my best friend. I don't know if I'll manage to come by before the party, with work and all, but maybe we can figure something out.”

Sherlock's features relaxed. “Definitely,” he affirmed, tightening his hold on John's hand. John's heart jumped at the feeling.

“Alright, then. Perfect.”

They looked at each other unmovingly for a moment, hands still touching, bodies tilted towards each other. John blinked, licking his lips at the sudden dryness making itself known. Sherlock's eyes flickered to his mouth at the movement, his own lips parted ever so slightly. John was close enough to smell him, and without meaning to he leaned closer, his hand tightening around Sherlock's, and there was something, something about the look on his face that made him want to-

They both startled as Beatrice cooed, the moment vanishing into nothingness as reality overtook them again. Suddenly their angle felt awkward, the air between them too hot, their shared breathing boisterous in the quiet room.

John blinked a couple of times as he collected himself. He wasn't quite sure what had just happened. What the hell had that been about?

Sherlock withdrew his hand from John's, and John felt a pang in his chest at the loss of contact.

“My turn,” Sherlock said as he stood up, and if he sounded a little rougher than usual, neither of them mentioned it.

* * *

Saturday came faster than John could think. He spent all week trying to catch up on his assignments (and failing), pondering on his relationship with Sherlock (futile), and trying to come up with a way to avoid his family on his birthday (also fruitless).

Sherlock was still asleep when John woke up on Saturday as an adult for the first time in his life. He took a moment to just watch his face, softened with sleep, looking so much younger for it. He reached out to brush a curl from his forehead, then remembered himself and retreated his hand before he could touch him.

He silently got up, taking Beatrice with him until he had to leave for work, and from then on his day turned into a whirlwind of congratulations, handshakes, hugs, texts and smiling customers.

His colleagues at the shop sang him a serenade, much to his embarrassment. But they'd also brought him cake, which mollified him enough to wear his “It's my Birthday” badge with honour. Still, he was glad when his shift was done and he finally got a minute to himself on his way home.

Only that the solitude didn't last for long.

“Johnny!” Harry cried when she opened the front door. John groaned.

“I told you not to call me that. It's my birthday, Harry. You're supposed to try and make me happy.”

Harry had a huge grin on her face. “You wish! My baby brother is now an adult. Time for you to learn that life is not all guns and roses.”

John let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Don't I know it,” he muttered. Harry snickered. Then she pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. 

“Happy Birthday,” she mumbled into his ear, more serious now, and John briefly closed his eyes as he held onto her.

“Thanks,” he said when she let go, clearing his throat.

“Feel any different?” she asked, giving him a once-over.

“Not really.” John shrugged. “Things are still like they were yesterday, aren't they?”

“I felt the same when I turned eighteen.” Harry nodded. “And I can tell you, I still don't feel like an adult. That might just be because I'm me, though.”

John grinned and she stepped aside.

“Come on it, then,” she said with a half-smile. “Dad isn't home.”

John didn't let the relief washing over him show. He knew that Harry saw it anyway.

“Ah,” he said. “That's good.”

Harry gave him a knowing look. “Mum!” she then called out, skipping into the kitchen. “John's here!”

His mother embraced him as well, kissing his cheek before she let go of him. There was a sadness in her eyes as she looked at him that John was used to finding there, but today he didn't want to look at it. Today was supposed to be a happy day.

“Dad's out?” he asked when they sat down at the kitchen table. His mother nodded.

“He's at work,” she said. “He told me to wish you a happy birthday if you left before he got home. He might text later.”

“Right. Thanks.” John knew as well as she did that the text would never arrive. He also knew not to get worked up about it anymore.

“Right,” he said again, banishing all thoughts about his father to the back of his mind, “where's my cake?”

He grinned when Harry jumped up as though she'd only waited for him to ask. She fetched the cake while his mother set the table, handing him a plate and a fork.

John gave her a disapproving look when she and Harry slid over a handful of presents as well.

“You shouldn't have,” he scolded, taking them only when Harry rolled her eyes and pushed them farther into his direction.

“You only turn eighteen once, John,” his mother said softly, and so he took them with a hint of guilt.

They had a piece of cake afterwards – chocolate, John's favourite – and talked about this and that. 

And it was actually nice. For once, nobody made any cutting remarks. John's mum talked about a family friend's new job. Harry talked about her new girlfriend, which she preferred to do when their father wasn't home. John talked about Sherlock.

His mother regarded him silently over her cup of tea while he spoke, as she so often did. Today he returned the gaze with a small smile.

After a second piece of cake John rubbed his belly with a content sigh. A glance at the clock told him that it was high time he got going, and so he managed to excuse himself before his father showed up. 

Harry accompanied him to help set everything up. Together they bought snacks and drinks for the night and carried them to their aunt's garden house.

“It's so nice out here,” Harry said as she stepped into the garden, looking around the wide, open space. “Wish she'd had this place when I turned eighteen.”

“Well,” John said, “sometimes I ought to get lucky too, don't I?”

She elbowed him, then ushered him inside to prepare the house. 

It really was a gorgeous location. John had no idea how his aunt had been able to afford it. There was a large hallway connecting the inside of the house and the garden, ideal for the eventuality of rain.

“How long until your friends get here?” Harry asked when they were done.

John checked his phone. “Two hours.”

“Come on then,” she said, pushing him towards the door. “There's a new kebab place just around the corner. You haven't had anything besides cake today, and you need to eat. Dinner's on me.”

John accepted with only a slight grumble and let himself be pushed out of the door. 

He yearned to go and see Sherlock, even if just for an hour, but he knew that there was hardly enough time. His growling stomach reminded him that he really ought to eat something. 

And spending time with his sister was nice too. They hadn't been together like this in a long time. So John silently accepted that seeing Sherlock on his birthday was doomed to remain a wish, and tried to enjoy it as much as he could.

Dinner mollified him to some extent. Harry hadn't promised too much - the food was fantastic, and John got close to stuffing himself. 

On their way back they met Greg and Molly, and from then on, John was occupied with friends, classmates, people they'd brought along and the usual host's commitments. 

John didn't have that many friends, but he got along well enough with most people, and nobody wanted to miss out on a party when they were all stressed out with the baby project and upcoming finals.

It was somewhat nice to have so many people there for his birthday, although John couldn't help but sorely miss the presence of one particular person. 

 _Tomorrow,_  he told himself, trying to push down the feeling.  _You'll see him tomorrow._

He found himself wandering around restlessly, chatting with people here and there. He repeatedly checked his phone for a text from Sherlock as the space filled rapidly and the mood became merrier and merrier. Nothing.

He was probably busy with Beatrice, John pondered, and guilt nagged at him at the thought. He'd left Sherlock to take care of her the whole day. No wonder he wasn't texting him.

John chewed on his lip, then decided that he could just as well start the conversation.

 

_How's the little Bee?_

 

The reply was almost immediate.  _He didn't wait for you to text him,_  John told himself. His heart still fluttered in his chest.

 

_Mercifully quiet after a rather exhausting crying fit this morning._

 

John smiled when he noticed that Sherlock had stopped using his initials to sign off a text.

 

_Glad to hear it. And how's the father doing? You alright?_

 

_I'm fine. How's your party?_

 

He typed out  _Fine_ , then hesitated before adding a smiley. It  _was_  fine. It just... could be better.

 

_Will you come here afterwards?_

 

“Oh, don't tempt me,” John muttered.

 

_I don't think so :( It's gonna be late and I don't want to disturb you or your parents._

 

_Oh._

 

The text was immediately followed by another one.

 

_Alright._

 

Great. Now they were both disappointed. John sighed.

 

_I probably shouldn't spend all night on my phone at my own party... I'll come by tomorrow morning, yeah? I hope you have a good night until then, no crying and all that :)_

 

The answer was as short as it was typical.

 

_Likewise_

 

Then,  _Enjoy your night, John._

 

And that was it.

John spent the following hour immersing himself in the crowd, smiling and laughing and trying to keep any thoughts about Sherlock at bay.

Presents were a good occupation. He'd received some nice and thoughtful gifts, as well as some rather  _explicit_  ones.

“You really didn't have to,” he said as he unwrapped the toy Irene and Janine had given him, which he was certain he would never touch again in his life after tonight.

Irene gave him a smug smile. “Our pleasure,” she said. Janine next to her displayed a matching grin.

“No, I meant that,” John said with a frown, turning the object in his hands, trying to understand what it was for. “I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with this.”

Janine gave a hearty laugh. “Don't worry,” she then said with a wink, "we brought you another, boring present. It's on the table over there.”

“Ah.” John smiled in relief. “Thank you, then.”

Irene just smirked. She _had_ always loved to tease him, John pondered. Not just him, but everyone, really. He had no idea how Janine put up with it.

“Now,” Irene said, “I believe you're wanted elsewhere.” She took Janine's hand and pulled her away, throwing a glance back at him.

“What?”

“Someone wants to see you!” she called over her shoulder, and then they were gone.

John frowned, then froze when he heard a voice behind him. A deep, familiar baritone he'd know anywhere, in a heartbeat. A voice saying nothing but "John", and yet filling him with more joy than anything else he'd heard that day.

John spun around to confirm what his ears already told him, and a grin spread on his face as he laid eyes on Sherlock.

"You came!" he shrieked, beaming up at his face. Sherlock looked vaguely amused by his reaction.

"Yes. You said you wanted to see me today, didn't you? As your- best friend, I couldn't possibly deny you your wish."

He said the words with such pride, despite the hesitation, that John couldn't help but take one of his hands in his and squeeze. Sherlock blinked at the movement, then smiled hesitantly.

"So here you are," John concluded.

"Here I am." Sherlock nodded. He returned the squeeze, then said, "Happy Birthday, John."

John beamed. He was aware that he probably looked like an idiot, but he couldn't care less about it.

"Thank you. I'm so happy to see you! I wanted to come by earlier, but there was so much to do. I'm really glad you're here. You didn't have to, I know how you- seriously, just, thank you for coming."

Then he realised - quite belatedly - that Sherlock had come alone.

"Um." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Where did you leave our baby, then?"

"My father is using the third bracelet," Sherlock explained. A smirk appeared on his face. John arched his eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

"I imagine Mycroft is having a good time right now, seeing as he came by for a visit earlier and is now stuck with our father and his baby simulator niece."

John couldn't help it - he snorted, covering his laughter with one hand. Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he watched him, and suddenly John felt very warm under his gaze.

He'd blame it on the alcohol, only that he hadn't had any.

"Well,  _I_  imagine he refuses any cooperation and your poor father is left to deal with her on his own."

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose," he conceded. "Still, it makes for an entertaining image."

"Absolutely." It suddenly hit John that he was still holding Sherlock's hand.

 _We really are big on that front,_  he thought, his cheeks burning with the realisation. He was loath to let go, though, and Sherlock had made no attempt to do so either.

The decision was taken from him when someone yelled his name from the end of the hall.

He turned around to see that Mike and Sarah had arrived, along with a couple of mates from his biology course.

"Sorry," he said as he turned back to Sherlock, squeezing his hand before reluctantly letting go. "I should go over there for a minute. I'll be right back, yeah?"

"It's your party, John," Sherlock said, taking a step back. "Go." He waved his hand, giving him a small smile.

John sent a thankful look his way.

“I'll get to you in a bit, yeah? Just- make yourself comfortable, alright?” He beamed at Sherlock, then turned around to make his way through the crowd.

“Mike, hey! So good to see you, mate. And you, Sarah!”

They cheered as he approached them, and he got caught up in their conversation right away. Of course everyone wanted to talk to him, ask him what being an adult felt like, what he'd gotten for his birthday, the usual.

When John looked back some time later he caught a glimpse of Sherlock standing in the corner, hands in his pockets. He yearned to leave his guests behind and go to him, but somebody tapped him on the shoulder and he returned his attention to the people in front of him.

The next time he turned around – much later than he'd planned - Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He frowned, scanning the crowd.

“Sorry, excuse me,” he said at the next possibility, stepping away from the group to go looking for him.

He couldn't find him anywhere. Maybe he'd slipped away into a quiet corner?

He turned his head and spotted Molly and Greg. If Sherlock had talked to anyone, it was probably those two. John made his way to them.

Molly was seated on a bench, snuggled together with Greg a little closer than friends would usually be.

Then again, John thought, an image of Sherlock's hand in his crossing his mind, he might not be the best judge of that.

He ignored their close proximity for the time being, asking instead, “Sorry, do you know where Sherlock went? Have you seen him anywhere?”

“Oh, I thought he'd told you,” Molly peeped, raising her eyebrows as John blinked at her.

“Told me what?”

“Well, I saw him leave, not that long ago. About twenty minutes, I think.”

“What? Oh.” John closed his mouth, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I wanted to at least talk to him before he went home.”

“Yeah, he didn't stay very long, did he? Then again, I didn't really expect him to show up at all. Although, it's your party, so it's not that surprising, is it? I mean, you and him, you've gotten really close lately.” She probably would have chattered on if John hadn't interrupted her.

“Yeah. Of course, I mean, this isn't really his kind of thing. I just thought- never mind. Thanks,” he said with a somewhat forced smile, then turned around before she could properly look at him. Although he and Molly weren't really close, she could be disturbingly observant at times.

John made his way through the hall to the garden, feeling the need for some fresh air.

He took out his phone when he stood outside. He'd wanted to text Sherlock, but he already had a message.

 

 _Thanks for the invitation,_  it said.  _Enjoy yourself. I'll see you tomorrow._

 

John swallowed hard, a great longing washing over him as he read the words.

Of course he'd left. It was a miracle that he'd shown up at all.

And yet John's throat felt too tight all of a sudden, the space around him too close.

 _Terrible_ , he thought, taking a deep breath.  _It's terrible what this kind of yearning does to you._

He walked around aimlessly for a while, trying to find someone to distract him from the oppressive feeling sitting on his chest. He took in the garden, the lights shining in the darkness around them, music blasting from inside the house where people had started to dance.

His friends were laughing and singing along to the music around him, standing in small groups with drinks in their hands, and John realised that no matter what he tried to tell himself, he was miserable.

He didn't want to be here with any of them. He just wanted to be with Sherlock.

He was ripped from his thoughts when someone called his name.

“Hey, Johnny!”

He turned around to see Harry approaching him. John noted with relief that she was sober – one less thing for him to worry about.

“Hey,” he said back, trying to smile.

“Enjoying your party?”

“Yeah, I- yeah.” He'd hesitated a moment too long. Harry lifted her eyebrows, then took him by the elbow as she led him to a more secluded spot.

“What's wrong?” she asked, and her tone demanded a real answer.

“Nothing's  _wrong_ per se,” John tried to talk around it. A look at Harry's face told him that it was futile. He sighed.

“I just- it's Sherlock. He should be here. He's the person that I want here the most, and he actually came and now he's gone, and I just- I just realised that I'm miserable without him.” He took a deep breath. Harry was staring at him with her mouth half-opened.

“What the hell?” she asked, blinking slowly. “What are you even talking about?”

John sighed. “Sherlock, he's- he came, although parties really aren't his thing, you know? He came for  _me_ , because I told him that I wanted to see him on my birthday. And then I had to leave him for a bit and before I could even talk to him properly he was gone, and I realised that the only thing that's missing is _him._ ”

He pursed his lips, straightening his back. “I swear I'm not drunk,” he added at her incredulous expression.

Harry was still staring at him. When he stopped talking, her eyes grew even wider.

“John, you-” she started, then shook her head slightly. “Do you have a crush on him?”

“I think it's more than that by now,” John admitted meekly.

“Oh, Johnny,” she sighed, and a moment later John found himself wrapped in a tight embrace. He closed his eyes as he held on to her, and suddenly he felt like he was five years old again and safe in his sister's arms.

“Why didn't you  _tell_  me, you git?” she demanded to know a moment later, gripping him by the shoulder to get a look at his face.

“Tell you about me being bi or me being into Sherlock? Because I thought the first one was fairly obvious after you physically had to drag me away from that boy at the lake last summer-”

“John.” John closed his mouth and stared at her. 

 _Five-year-old Johnny blinking up at Harriet, eight years old and that much more mature, that much wiser, always able to make everything alright again._  

And just for a moment, it felt exactly like that again.

“John,” Harry repeated, tightening her grip on his shoulders until it was almost painful. “Listen to me. This boy, this Sherlock- I don't know him, but from what you've told me he's one of a kind, yeah?”

John chuckled against his will. “He certainly is.”

“And for how many people, do you think, would he attend a party?”

John opened his mouth, then halted.

“Well?” Harry demanded.

“None,” he said. “None other than me.”

“Right. And you told me that he doesn't  _do friends_  back when you got paired up for your doll.”

“Yes.”

Harry grinned. “So what's different about you?”

John thought. Swallowed. Scratched his neck as he thought some more. 

He felt like he was shrinking under Harry's increasingly poignant gaze. “Um.”

“Well?”

“I-”

“He likes you,” she interrupted before he got the chance to think of an ending to that sentence, like it was an obvious truth and he was too stupid to see it. “He  _likes_  likes you.”

John opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Oh my god, you're not even going to argue about this, are you?”

“Well, lately I've been thinking that there might be  _something,_ but _-_ ”

“Johnny!” Harry cried, then looked around to see if anyone had heard them. “John. I can't  _believe_  you right now. You're saying that there's a good chance he's actually into you?”

John nodded silently, feeling like his head was spinning. “And you're, and I'm quoting here, miserable because you're  _missing_  him?”

He nodded again, softer this time. Harry shook her head.

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” She squeezed  his shoulders. “John, you're head over heels in love with that boy.”

He opened his mouth, but Harry wouldn't have it. “I know you're scared about what's going to happen if he doesn't feel the same way, but I also know that you're the bravest kid I've ever known. You were never scared of taking a chance, John. Never. And I'm telling you now to go and take that chance. Trust me. It'll be worth it.”

John swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he considered it. Deep down he knew that this was only the final straw. He was on the brink of acting, had been so ever since they'd lain under the night sky, and he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

“He's my best friend,” he said in a last attempt to talk himself out of it, but Harry's gleaming eyes told him that they both knew it was futile.

“And if he doesn't have a crush on you, he'll continue to be just that. Things don't have to be awkward between you if you try it and nothing comes of it. But if something does...”

And that was all the incentive he needed.

“Alright,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Alright. Harry, I- thank you. You're-”

“Shh,” she said, winking at him before a strange expression came over her. “Come on, give me the keys. I'll take care until everyone's gone. But I'm not cleaning up for you, just so you know.”

A laugh escaped John. “Wouldn't have dreamed of it,” he said. Then he squared his shoulders, dropping the keys into Harry's hands.

“Good luck, Johnny,” she said, looking at him with a wide smile. “Not that you'll need it.”

John gave her a thankful nod, then turned around and left the party behind.

It only occurred to him that it was half past two in the morning when he stood at the bus stop, but he was lucky enough to catch a bus only a few minutes later.

It wasn't a long ride, and from the bus stop it was only a short walk to Sherlock's house. Not nearly long enough to calm his fluttering pulse.

 _I'm going to tell him, I'm going to tell him, I'm going to tell him_. Like a mantra in his head, doing nothing but spark the excitement in his belly even more.

John got his phone out when he was almost there.

 

_Are you awake?_

_Please tell me you're awake_

 

_I'm awake. Why?_

 

_Can you come to the door please?_

 

John reached the gate. He checked his phone for a reply, but then the front door opened. Sherlock's eyes settled on John's immediately, and John swallowed hard.

The sight of him hit him harder than it should have, after having seen him just a few hours ago. He was already dressed for bed, his hair ruffled in the most adorable way, and his bare feet peeking out under his pyjama bottoms.

He looked, quite simply, breathtaking.

"John? Is something wrong? Why are you here?”

"I- um.” John closed his mouth, suddenly lost for words. Why was this so much easier in his head?

Sherlock watched him struggle for a moment, his brow furrowed. His eyes travelled over John's dishevelled hair, his opened mouth, his bobbing Adam's apple. Then he raised his gaze to John's eyes.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asked, his voice soft. “Why aren’t you at your party?”

“I wanted to see you,” John said, the words coming out a little breathlessly. “I came to see you.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “You... wanted to see me?” he repeated. It came out as a question. John nodded, closing the distance between them with another step. They were almost chest to chest now.

“I really, really did,” he whispered, licking his lips. His heart thumped with excitement at the close proximity, the sight of Sherlock's features up close, his smell filling his nose. It was  _delicious._

”I-” Sherlock hesitated. “Are you drunk?” he asked, and John could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

”No.” John shook his head. “I just- I was there, and it was nice, but something wasn’t right, like something was missing. And when you showed up- it was you, I knew it was you. And then you left and I didn’t even- I just-” he let out a shaky breath- “I just wanted to see you. I just wanted to be with you.”

Something flashed across Sherlock’s face, something vulnerable and insecure and achingly wonderful, and John was going to kiss him, oh, he was going to kiss this mad, beautiful idiot right now, before he could come up with a reason to regret it.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes.” It came out as a croak.

”I’m going to kiss you,” John said breathlessly, because he really couldn't keep himself from giving in to the urge anymore, and it wouldn’t be fair to attack him without a warning.

Sherlock’s lips parted as he let out a small “oh” sound that made John go weak in the knees.

“Is that alright with you?” he whispered, his heartbeat rustling so loudly in his ears that he barely heard himself.

Instead of giving an answer, Sherlock gripped his shoulders and kissed him square on the mouth.

John let out a surprised gasp against his lips.

 _Okay, then,_ he thought, his body pressed to Sherlock's. _That is definitely okay. Fine. More than fine. Brilliant, in fact._

Then he gave himself over to the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on his completely.

Sherlock's lips felt heavenly _,_ warm and pliant and so _real_ against John's as they touched, got to know the shape of each other's mouths, the feeling. They caressed lips, rubbed them, pulled them between their own, nibbling the soft skin.

The kiss wasn't perfect, a little messy, somewhat uncoordinated, and worth every second John had spent yearning for Sherlock to touch him like this.

Sherlock made a deep, rumbling sound somewhere in the back of his throat and John shuddered, pulling Sherlock even closer as he opened his mouth. His hand found its way to Sherlock's jaw almost naturally.

Sherlock sighed when John's tongue teased his lower lip, tasted him for the first time, and he gladly parted his lips to grant him entrance. The feeling of their tongues touching, their lips still pressed together, was electrifying.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling him impossibly closer, and refused to let go of him as they got lost in the feeling of their lips meeting again and again. They eventually stopped moving without parting, breathing into each other's mouths for a while.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled against his lips, and the movement was so arousing that John couldn't help but kiss him again.

This time it was slower, their lips knowing the feeling of each other by now, grazing and meeting and pulling in an almost gentle way.

Sherlock's chest still heaved when John drew back slightly.

He seemed to take a moment before managing to speak, then repeated,  _“John.”_

“Yes,” John said, eyes fixed on Sherlock's deliciously swollen lips. He brushed against them with his mouth, unable to stop himself, now that he knew he was allowed to do this. That Sherlock _wanted_ to give this, share this with him.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled again, going in for another kiss immediately. “John,” against his reddened mouth.

“Mhm.” John moved to press a series of dry pecks to Sherlock's glistening lips. “Yes, Sherlock?” he whispered, grazing them with his as he spoke.

“You- we-” He was struggling to put together a sentence, and John felt a thrilling surge of satisfaction rushing through him. He'd made _Sherlock Holmes_ speechless.

He watched his face as Sherlock tried to compose himself. He could see all the lovely details of his face from up close that he'd never noticed before – the brown speckles in his bright iris, the mole between his eyebrows, the heavy flutter of his lashes as he blinked at John. His eyes roamed over John's face continuously, and he remained silent as he seemingly kept getting distracted by his features.

His arms slipped from John's neck back to his shoulders, apparently unable to let go completely.

“That-” He furrowed his brow, frustrated by his lack of eloquence, and John couldn't help but stretch up and kiss the wrinkled skin.

Sherlock exhaled slowly through his mouth.

“Was that okay?” John whispered when it became clear that he wouldn't get much else out of Sherlock for the time being. Sherlock nodded fervently.

“Good.” John moved his hands to hold on to Sherlock's wrists. He beamed at him for a moment, feeling euphoria run through his veins like a drug, only so much better.

“Inside?” he asked, moving his thumbs in small circles.

Sherlock blinked. “You're staying?"

John grinned as Sherlock regained his ability to speak.

“Of course," he replied. "I came to see you. I'm not leaving unless you want me to.”

Sherlock took his hands from his shoulders, intertwining John's fingers with his before stepping aside to let him in. “Of course I don't,” he said, as though it was the most obvious fact in the world.

He only let go of John's hand when they reached his room. John went in and Sherlock closed the door in silence, then turned around and rested his back against it.  
They looked at each other for a moment. The air seemed to buzz with anticipation.

“John-” Sherlock said, the word sounding urgent somehow, and then they stepped towards each other and into a deep embrace almost simultaneously. John let out a happy sigh at the feeling of Sherlock's warm body pressed against his own. It felt better than anything he'd ever imagined. It felt like coming home.

He closed his arms around Sherlock's waist, drawing him closer, resting his head on his chest. Sherlock buried his face in John's hair. John could feel him inhaling deeply, the sensation somehow making him hold on to him even tighter.

“I'm so glad,” he mumbled into Sherlock's shirt. “I'm so glad you feel the same way. I had no idea.”

Sherlock hummed, the sound coming from deep in his throat and resonating down John's spine deliciously.

Eventually they parted. John took another moment to really look at Sherlock. “You were about to go to bed,” he said.

“Yes."

“Can I join you? Just- to sleep, I mean. It's been a long day.”

“Of course,” he said, looking appalled by the mere idea of John sleeping elsewhere. The sight made John smile.

“Okay. I'll just get changed.” He pecked Sherlock's lips before he left, just because he could, the simple action sending sparks through his body.

When he got back, Sherlock had laid down, his eyes wide open. He focused on John the second he stepped into the room, and John could feel his gaze on him even after he turned the lights off. He crawled into bed beside him. Sherlock rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around John immediately. His lips sought out John's for another kiss, shyly at first, then, encouraged by his immediate response, more insistently. They broke the kiss when their breathing grew heavier, their lips parting with a soft sound, their noses still touching.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“Good night, John.” It was only a breath.

John smiled as he tightened his arms around Sherlock, running his hands up and down his back for a while. Then he closed his eyes, listening to Sherlock's even breathing as he drifted off.

They fell asleep like this, with the sound of their shared breaths filling the air and their arms still wrapped around each other.


	6. Chapter 6

John woke up with an indescribable sense of ecstasy, pride, and a fair bit of smugness in his chest. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, basking in the feeling, then blinked against the bright morning light.

He turned his head to find Sherlock already awake, his head supported on one hand, watching him closely. From anyone else the unmoving stare would have been creepy, but, well, this was Sherlock.

John's lips quirked into a smile.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

Sherlock blinked, then slowly let his head sink onto the pillow.

“Hello,” he said cautiously, his eyes still fixed on John.

John raised an eyebrow, turning to his side. "You okay?”

"Are _you?_ ” Sherlock asked instead of giving a reply.

John huffed out a laugh. "Of course, why wouldn’t I be? I kissed the most beautiful boy I know last night, and he actually kissed me back, so...” He drew out the final syllable, glancing up at Sherlock through his lashes. Sherlock was still assessing him, looking somewhat doubtful.

"So you don’t- regret it?”

"What? No, of course not!” John blinked, then sat up. His heart jumped uncomfortably in his chest as a thought occurred to him. “Do _you?_ ”

Sherlock looked as shocked as John felt. “No! I don’t. Of course not.”

They both stared at each other for a moment. Then John relaxed, reaching out to intertwine Sherlock's hand with his.

“I guess we never got to talk about it last night, did we?” he asked, playing with Sherlock's fingers on the duvet. “I meant what I said, Sherlock. Every word. I was at the party and it was nice, and then you showed up and it was _fantastic,_ and when I realised that you'd left I just knew that I wanted to be with you. Only you. No one else.”

Sherlock blinked up at John in silence, absorbing every word, and his still anxious expression gave John the courage to continue.

“And I didn't just start feeling like this yesterday,” he confessed, fondling Sherlock's hand as though it was something precious as he spoke. “Greg used to say that I had a crush on you from the start, and I'm beginning to realise that he wasn't too far off with that.”

He glanced at Sherlock, who watched him breathlessly. His fingers twitched in John's hand, and he tightened his hold on them. “I was fascinated by you, Sherlock. I couldn't keep my eyes off you. And when we started talking, I just- the massive crush I have on you practically hit me in the face.”

He shook his head, seeking Sherlock's eyes. “I was terrified that you'd realise. I still don't know how you didn't see it,” he said with a chuckle. “I thought you couldn't possibly feel the same way. But then you did all these things – you touched me, held my hand, opened up to me the way you did, and- well, I hoped. I hoped that you felt the same. And last night I just couldn't go on like that anymore. I admit that Harry gave me a push in the right direction, but the rest- it's all me, Sherlock. That's the truth.”

He turned a little, letting go of Sherlock's hand as he reached out to touch his face. He moved a thumb over his jaw, and Sherlock bit his lip, watching him attentively.

“I did last night what I'd wanted to do for ages. I wasn't drunk, it wasn't on a whim, and I don't regret _any_ of it. On the contrary. I'm so happy I did it.”

Sherlock's lips parted. He tugged on John's arm, and John obeyed the silent demand with pleasure. He leaned down, burying his face in Sherlock's neck, feeling his curls tickling his skin, his arms around his back, his scent, so intense here, filling his nose as he breathed in. It was heavenly.

John could stay here forever, he decided. Safe in his arms. Surrounded by Sherlock, nothing but him.

“And you wanna know something else?” he asked, nuzzling Sherlock's neck. “That was the best birthday present I ever got. Ever. Nothing can top that.”

He lifted his head to get a look at Sherlock's face, then, unable to hold himself back, pressed a dry kiss to his warm, soft lips.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. He sat up with a start, pulling John up with him.

“Bathroom. Now. Come on,” he said, tugging on John's arm.

John raised an eyebrow. “Why the rush?”

“Because I want to kiss you again. Properly. Hurry up!” he demanded, already up and halfway across the room. John broke into a laugh.

“Well, there's a motivation to get up if I ever saw one,” he mumbled. Then he jumped out of bed to follow him.

Sherlock brushed his teeth in record time, waiting impatiently as John took his time. His fingers drummed against the sink, and John smiled around his toothbrush.

He didn't drag it out on purpose – he just enjoyed seeing Sherlock squirming with impatience. For _him._ It was quite exhilarating.

“Move,” he said through the foam in his mouth when he decided that he couldn't wait any longer either. Then he spat out and rinsed thoroughly. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

“Are you done yet?” he asked, groaning when John rubbed a towel over his face.

“Done,” he confirmed with a grin, then stepped so close to Sherlock that their chests were pressed together. Sherlock's arms came around John's waist, and John snuck his around Sherlock's neck.

He leaned in, brushing his mouth over Sherlock's before his lips parted and John moved to follow the invitation. The prominent taste of peppermint soon faded to the background as other sensations took over. Small breaths escaped Sherlock's lips as he enthusiastically pressed up against John.

They were both a little clumsy, still figuring out how they fit together, but that was half the fun. Their lips met time and time again, parting and immediately returning to each other, their tongues touching shyly.

John sighed into Sherlock's mouth, then slowly broke the kiss.

“Good morning,” he said, unable to hold off his grin any longer.

John knew he wasn't the most experienced kisser, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind one bit. He was blinking down at John with a charming blush on his face and neck, his heavy breathing evident in the way his chest moved against John's. John put his hands to his jaw, caressing the soft skin. He wondered if Sherlock ever shaved. His skin felt like a baby's.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. John gave him a questioning look.

“Mh?”

“It is. A good morning. Very good.” Then he dove in to catch John's lips between his again, and John let him take control freely. One hand slipped to Sherlock's shoulder, his fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt.

Sherlock was nibbling John's lower lip, seemingly encouraged by the breathy sounds John let out. Then he returned his attention to his whole mouth, kissing him like he wanted to make up for the time they'd lost.

Although Sherlock didn't have much experience, he certainly was a quick learner. John felt himself getting weaker in the knees as the kiss grew more heated and they both began clutching at pieces of clothing.

“We should probably- ah, stop there,” he mumbled through the kiss.

“Mmmh,” Sherlock hummed, merrily continuing until John thought that he couldn't take it anymore.

Sherlock certainly didn't do anything by halves.

He slowly ended the kiss, finishing the smooching session with a series of quick pecks to his lips, jaw and nose. He looked pleased at the result, taking John's flush and elevated breathing in with a delighted smile.

John returned the smile, feeling slightly dizzy.

“Yeah, that. Um.” He cleared his throat. “Was also good. Very good. Anytime you wanna do that.”

Sherlock hummed, touching his reddened lips and rubbing them softly as he glanced at John.

“Yes. Definitely, yes.”

John let out a laugh. “Alright, you've got to give me a minute to get ready. How about we have some breakfast then? I could really use something to eat.” He frowned. “Or brunch. I've no idea what time it is.”

Before Sherlock could reply, they heard the faint crying of Beatrice sounding from the other room.

John bit his lip. “Okay, change of plans. We take care of our baby, which I totally did not forget about until just now, and then we'll have something to eat.”

Sherlock sighed. “I'll go. You finish getting ready.” He turned around. “Hurry up,” he called over his shoulder. John just grinned and shook his head.

The grin was still plastered on his face when he left the bathroom and nearly ran into Mycroft Holmes.

“Jesus,” he hissed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Sorry. Good morning, Mycroft.” He really ought to pay more attention when leaving the bathroom in this house.

“Good morning, John,” Mycroft said, giving him a once-over. John suppressed a sigh. “I see congratulations are in order.”

“Um. Yes.”

Still as unsettling as the first time, then. “You... see? Right. Of course you do.” John cleared his throat. “Anyway, thanks. I think.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, tilting his head to the side. “Just to make things clear, John,” he continued, “despite what he might think, I am very fond of my brother. He's not usually involved in... such matters, as I'm sure you know. I'd loathe for him to get his heart broken.”

John held up a hand. “Hold on, is this actually you giving me the hurt-him-and-I'll-kill-you-speech?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. His nose wrinkled in disdain at the expression. “If you want to call it that. I merely want to make sure that Sherlock's wellbeing is your first priority as much as it is mine.”

John sighed. “Somehow I knew this was coming.”

“Then you'll also know to follow my advice and treat my brother right, I'm sure.”

John glared at him as he tried to suppress the anger rising in his chest. He crossed his arms, his patience wearing thin.

“Alright, look, I get it. You're protective of Sherlock. I'm also protective of him. Trust me when I say that I don't intend to ever hurt him, in any way. Besides, we only just got together last night, so maybe give me a chance to prove myself, yeah?”

Mycroft studied his face for a moment, then nodded.

“There's food in the kitchen,” he only said, and John breathed a sigh of relief at the change of subject. Whatever test Mycroft had given him, he seemed to have passed it for now. “You must be hungry. Sadly I have to be on my way.”

Sadly was not a word John would have used to start that sentence, but he bit his lip and kept silent.

“I'll be seeing you around, John.”

John nodded, holding back any irritation from his voice when he said his goodbyes.

“I see he finally let you go,” Sherlock remarked when John entered the room, rocking Beatrice in his arms.

“Your brother's weird,” John said.

Sherlock sighed. “Don't I know it.”

John's growling stomach reminded them of more pressing matters, and so they went to the kitchen, where Sherlock's parents were sitting at the table.

“Morning, boys,” Sherlock's father said when they entered the room.

“Good morning,” they replied in unison, then smiled at each other.

Sherlock's mother looked up from her laptop. “John, I thought you wouldn't be back until later today! When did you get here?”

“Er, last night,” John replied, “it was pretty late.”

She gave him a curious look and her eyes travelled to Sherlock as she took them in. “Alright,” she said, a small, questioning smile on her face.

Sherlock groaned. “Yes, Mummy,” he said, rolling his eyes. John lifted his eyebrows. Mrs. Holmes' smile turned into a wide grin.

“Oh, Sherlock! How lovely!” she exclaimed, nudging her husband. “Isn't that wonderful, dear?”

Mr. Holmes smiled as well. “Very much so,” he agreed.

Sherlock sighed. “Lovely. Yes. We're all very happy. John's lovely, he's happy too. Can we have breakfast now?”

Mrs. Holmes chuckled. “Of course, dear. There, I'll make tea.”

She got up, ruffling his hair as she went past him. Sherlock sent a glare after her, then moved to fetch some buns from the kitchen counter.

John felt like he'd missed an important part of the conversation, but he grinned nonetheless. If only his parents had been that easy when Harry had come out.

Then he banished those thoughts to the back of his mind, returning his attention to breakfast with Sherlock and his parents. He'd always enjoyed sitting with the Holmes family, but holding Sherlock's hand under the table somehow made it that much better.

How lovely the simplest things could be.

Then again, he considered, there was nothing simple about being together with Sherlock Holmes. It was nothing short of extraordinary.

Once they'd retreated into their room again, Sherlock seemed to grow more solemn as the minutes passed.

“You alright?” John asked, reaching out to touch his hand.

“I'm fine.”

John intertwined their hands. “You can talk to me, you know? You don't have to, obviously, but it might help. Especially if you're thinking about- well, us.”

Sherlock seemed to reflect for a moment, then opened his mouth.

“John, you- it's about what you said earlier. Those things. It's-” He broke off, frowning at himself. John squeezed his hand.

“It's fine,” he hurried to assure him, rubbing his thumb over his skin. “You don't have to say anything to that. That's just how I feel. You don't need to say something in return.”

“I just meant to say, that's- a lot. Um. It means a lot. To me. And I do feel the same, even if you didn't think so at first.” He frowned again. “I still don't know how you didn't realise. It felt so obvious.”

“It's not obvious to me,” John said, then smiled. “Well, it is _now_. And anyway, you're the genius between the two of us. How the hell _you_ didn't figure it out, I've no idea.”

Sherlock's cheeks turned a faint red. “John, that's- it's not how people usually feel about me. I thought that perhaps I was projecting my own- myself onto you.” He knitted his brow. “I'm not good at these- emotional matters. Nobody's ever felt that way about me."

“That doesn't mean that nobody ever would. You just hadn't met _me_ yet. And anyway, people are idiots, aren't they?”

John smirked, rolling over until he was facing Sherlock directly. “Also, that definitely works in my favour. Who knows if I'd be lying here with you if everyone else realised how amazing you are. How brilliant. How gorgeous.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, then wrinkled his nose in pretended disdain. The sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

“Really, John, as if I'd lie here with anyone else just because they fancied me. Is that what you think of me? You're the only one who I've ever wanted to do this with. The only one I've ever wanted to want me.”

Now John blinked.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“I'm going to kiss you.”

Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he remembered their exchange from last night. He lifted his head from the pillow to forestall him and pressed their lips together.

They were getting rather good at this, a small part of John's brain remarked as he teased Sherlock's lips open with his.

The bigger part of his brain was occupied with the sensation of his warm mouth, the slick slide of lips, the quiet sounds of accelerated breaths, accompanied by the smallest sighs. Sherlock's mouth tasted sweet like honey, and John smiled into the kiss as he licked inside.

“What?” Sherlock mumbled against his lips, raising a hand to cup his jaw as he blinked at him.

“Nothing,” John mumbled, then sucked on that wonderful, lush lower lip. “You taste so good.”

“Mmh,” Sherlock hummed, his warm breath against John's face as he pulled him impossibly closer.

John drew back after a small eternity. He raised a finger to trace the shape of Sherlock's lips, the unmistakable signs of their insistent kissing. The skin around his mouth was so sensitive that it looked red and flushed from the thorough attention. John ran a finger over it. Sherlock was looking up at him with dazed eyes.

“I'm glad,” John said, pressing soft kisses all around Sherlock's mouth and along his jaw. Then he drew back again, brushing an errant curl from his forehead.

“About what?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit breathless.

“That you want to do this with me. That I'm allowed to do this. That that massive brain of yours somehow told you to develop a crush on me, of all people.”

“Who else?” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, then grabbed John's shoulder and swiftly pushed him down as he turned them both around.

John blinked in surprise as his back hit the mattress. Sherlock hovered over him a second later, his knees bracketing John's hips, an intense expression on his face as he leaned down. John moved his head to grant him better access as Sherlock ran his lips over his jaw, his neck, the corner of his mouth.

“Only you, John,” he muttered, his breath hot against John's skin. “Only you.”

John grabbed his face with both hands, directing his mouth to his again. One of his hands moved to Sherlock's neck, the other roamed over his chest until they broke apart again.

“That's nice, then,” John got out, trying hard not to pant. “I didn't think you were so into kissing.”

“I wasn't before. I definitely am now.”

“Jesus,” John said, then moved to flip them over again in a fluid motion. Sherlock's pleased look was worth it.

“I think I've created a monster,” John mumbled, nuzzling his neck. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him in return.

“Come here and let me show you,” he demanded. His deep voice, combined with the warmth of his limbs wrapped around John, were more than enough to convince him. John leaned in for a sloppy, wet, glorious kiss.

“I actually need to study, you know," he mumbled as he drew back.

“Mmh. Studying's boring.”

Sherlock pulled on John's shirt, and the gleam in his eyes told him that he already knew he'd win this argument. So John just sighed before attending to his boyfriend again.

They kissed and touched and lay with their legs entangled until John lost all sense of time. He didn't get a lot of work done that day, but he preferred studying Sherlock anyway.

* * *

When John picked up his phone for the first time in hours that night, he wasn't surprised to find thirteen messages from Harry.

 

_Well?_

_WELL?_

_How did it go?_

_Johnny are you serious tell me what happened_

 

And so on, up until the final one, which said  _I assume you've jumped into bed with him and are too busy to talk to your SISTER, who you have to THANK for your luck and that's why you HAVEN'T BLOODY TOLD ME ANYTHING YET._

 

John couldn't help but chuckle at Harry's texts, although he was glad that she wasn't there to see his face flush. He really had forgotten to tell her, after everything that had happened within the last day.

 

 _It went great_ , he texted back. _Thank you so much for pushing me. I'll even let that 'Johnny' slide for once_

_As for whether I jumped into bed with him, well, that's none of your business, is it? ;)_

 

He grinned. Harry wouldn't believe him that they'd only slept and kissed anyway, so he might as well give her something to gloat over.

Her reply was almost instant.

 

_JOHNNY I AM SO PROUD OF YOU_

 

He laughed, then tucked his phone away to follow Sherlock into the bathroom. If he was getting a boyfriend _and_ a better relationship with his sister out of this... well, he wasn't going to complain.

* * *

John didn't actually realise that they'd have to go back to school and leave their happy bubble behind until Beatrice woke them the next morning. Half an hour before they had to get up, of course.

It was strange, seeing Sherlock in the classroom again after everything that had happened that weekend. How closely they'd acquainted themselves with the shape of each others' lips already. How much things had changed in only a day.

They sat together with their classmates during their free period, neither of them really paying attention to what was going on.

Janine and Irene were snuggled up as usual, while Molly and Greg seemed to follow their example. John smiled at the sight.

He and Sherlock were seated closely next to each other, Beatrice on a chair next to them. Sherlock was mostly quiet as usual, but he kept on touching John in small ways. A hand on his thigh here. A brush of his fingers there. It was exhilarating and still so new and exciting, and more than enough to make him giddy. Luckily, everyone was so engrossed in their own crushes – or their babies, for that matter – that they didn't seem to notice.

He hadn't talked to Sherlock about making their relationship public yet, so John was glad that the attention wasn't on them. He made a mental note to mention it to him later.

The question was resolved, however, when Sherlock tugged at John's sleeve a while later and mumbled, “John.”

John looked up. He'd noticed Sherlock growing more fidgety next to him and now took his face in, trying to find out what was going on with him. The intensity of his unmoving gaze directed at John was enough to make him shiver.

“Yeah?” he asked, smiling warmly.

“What you told me when we were in the garden, about not holding myself back because of others. Did you mean that? Does that- still apply?”

John's eyebrows arched. “Of course,” he said, “course I meant that. That always applies. Why, why are you asking?”

Sherlock's eyes flickered over his face. “I want to do something,” he said.

John blinked, then smiled when Sherlock took his hand. The smile turned into a grin when Sherlock leaned in, kissing him square on the mouth for everyone to see.

John cupped Sherlock's face, then returned the kiss with enthusiasm. The chatter around them died down, but neither of them noticed. When they broke apart, both their chests heaving, everyone was silent for a beat.

“I fucking _knew_ it!” Greg was the first to break the silence, punching the air at the exclamation.

John and Sherlock still gazed into each other's eyes, grinning.

“Yes, Greg, you're awesome, you were right all along,” John said, turning his head slightly. He took hold of Sherlock's hand before breaking eye contact, reassuring him with a squeeze. Sherlock intertwined their fingers. “You're the man.”

“Well, would you look at that,” Irene remarked, her eyes sparkling as she smirked at the two of them. “Welcome to the club, lovelies.”

Mike regarded them both fondly. John returned the gaze with a grateful smile, somehow feeling like he owed him something for bringing them together in the first place. But Mike only smiled in return and nodded.

“Okay, mate, out with it, when did it happen? _How_ did it happen? Oh my god, which one of you took the next step?”

“Greg! Don't be so nosy, that's rude,” Molly chastised, but looked curious herself.

John glanced at Sherlock and grinned. “Well, you see, it all started on my birthday...”

* * *

“Surely this is scientifically impossible.”

“Sure it is,” John mumbled, trying to focus on his textbook over the sound of Beatrice's crying. Couldn't they have programmed her to cry just a little less loudly? He could hardly hear his own thoughts, let alone Sherlock's voice.

“John, don't you see?”

John looked up at the groan to find Sherlock staring daggers at the doll.

“No,” he said, shutting his book with a sigh. “Enlighten me.”

“I fed her two times in the last two hours. I burped her afterwards both times. She slept for hours earlier and I changed her diaper ten minutes ago, and yet she's _still_ crying.”

“Well, they did tell us that sometimes she'll cry for no reason. There's nothing scientific about it, I'm afraid.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John noticed for the first time that he looked rather exhausted. The sleep deprivation finally seemed to have caught up with him.

“Then how the hell are we supposed to predict and handle it?” Sherlock hissed, scowling so hard that his whole face crinkled. John got up to gently take Beatrice out of his arms.

“It's okay,” he said as he fiddled with her romper suit to put his bracelet into the slot. “My turn. You go and take a rest. You look bloody exhausted.”

Sherlock blinked repeatedly. “I'm not tired.”

“Sure you're not.” They stared at each other for a moment. Then John sighed. “How about I lie down with you in a bit? I'm sure she'll calm down soon.”

Sherlock hesitated, then sniffed. “Alright.”

“Good. Go ahead, I'll join you in a bit,” John directed with a pointed look. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but complied.

Thankfully Beatrice's crying did soon fade to occasional babbling. John sighed contently, putting her onto a pillow with care before getting on the bed himself. Sherlock was on his back, his eyes closed, but John could tell that he wasn't asleep. He pushed his arm away from his stomach and settled half on top of him, his head on his chest, seeking his heartbeat. Sherlock peeked an eye open, watching John moving around.

“Comfortable?” he murmured.

John hummed. “This okay?” he asked, running his fingers up and down Sherlock's arm.

“More than okay,” he said, resting a hand on John's back in a loose embrace.

“Good.” John smiled, then closed his eyes. He could use a little rest too, and his boyfriend's warmth, his steady breathing and the pounding of his heartbeat in John's ear were more than a little inviting. He felt utterly at peace like this, and the minutes dripped away in a contented haze.

When he opened his eyes a while later Sherlock was holding his phone, a soft smile on his face.

“What are you doing?” John asked, blinking up at him.

“I followed your example and took a picture when you weren't looking,” Sherlock said. He turned his phone around to present his new background. It was a picture of John resting on Sherlock's chest with his eyes closed, a relaxed smile on his face. John was a little taken aback by how happy he looked. Then he got distracted by Sherlock's face in the photo, which wasn't turned towards the camera, but towards John, wearing a strange, soft expression.

“That's very nice,” John said. Then he turned his head to press a kiss to the fabric on Sherlock's chest.

The hum Sherlock made in response felt very nice too, resonating down his spine, grounding him right there, right where he belonged.

* * *

John was really starting to regret not having caught up on his work earlier, since it now cost him valuable time he could spend kissing Sherlock.

“John.”

“No.”

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh. He'd called John's name several times by now, seemingly not caring about the fact that he refused to leave his work and join him on the bed.

“You're too far away,” he complained, rolling onto his stomach to squint at him. “Why aren't you done yet?”

“Because I spent the weekend doing just what you want to do now and fell behind on my assignments, that's why.”

“You can work on them over here.” John didn't have to look up to see the pout he could clearly hear in his voice.

“Nice try, Sherlock. You know as well as I do that I can't, because _someone_ is going to snatch my laptop from my hands before pinning me to the bed and snogging me until I forget what I'm supposed to be doing.”

It wasn't like it hadn't happened before.

Sherlock exhaled audibly. “Hurry up,” he finally said.

“You could work on your own assignments instead of slouching about and complaining, you know.”

_And distracting me with your pouty lips and your deep voice and your body stretched out on the bed like that._

“Boring,” Sherlock dismissed the suggestion.

John just shook his head.

The motivation worked, however. Having a pliant, bored Sherlock waiting for him right under his nose made it hard to focus, but got him to work faster in the end.

He got up from the chair when he was done for the day, throwing a look at Sherlock as he stretched his back. He'd closed his eyes some time ago, resting against the headboard in complete stillness. John crossed the room, then got onto the mattress.

“Wake up. I'm done.”

“I'm not sleeping.”

“Yeah, right. Come on, move over.”

They moved around until they were both on their sides, legs and arms entangled. Sherlock pecked his nose and John kissed his lips in return, and then they watched each other for a while. John could observe the thoughts passing through Sherlock's mind, could see him growing more serious as something occupied him.

“What is it?” John asked, nudging Sherlock's cheek. “Something on your mind, love?”

Sherlock's eyes snapped up and John's cheeks began to burn. He hadn't exactly meant to say that, but after seeing Sherlock with his lips parted in surprise, face flushed in a delightful manner, he couldn't deem it a mistake.

It took a moment for Sherlock to gather his thoughts again. “John, we haven't...” He trailed off.

“Haven't what?” John asked when he didn't continue.

“We haven't really talked about- well. What about your parents?”

John arched his eyebrows. “What about them?”

“You know. How will they react to- us?”

“They'll be alright.”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “Really? Your sister-”

“It was different with Harry,” John interrupted. “They've gotten somewhat used to it now. My mother won't mind, and my father- he doesn't matter. If he doesn't accept it, that's his problem.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking terribly uncertain. “I don't want to be another reason you two aren't getting along.”

John let out a laugh. “Sherlock, love,” he said, deliberately this time, smiling at the rapid blinking that got out of him, “my father and I never got along. And that's not due to you, or me, or anyone else but him. And it's okay. You mean way too much to me for me to give a damn about what he has to say about us.”

He raised a hand to Sherlock's face when he still looked doubtful.

“I mean it,” he insisted, brushing his thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “You mean so much to me, Sherlock. Nobody can change that. Least of all my dad.”

“Okay.” Sherlock swallowed at the rough sound of his voice. “Alright.”

John smiled, then kissed the corner of his lips. They remained like that for a while, occasionally talking, repeatedly kissing, holding onto each other until John had forgotten all about his father again.

He came dangerously close to saying the words that had begun to form at the back of his mind, becoming more prominent with every kiss.

 _Not yet,_ he thought, swallowing them down, seeking out Sherlock's lips again to stop himself from saying it. _It's too soon. Not yet._

But soon, maybe. Soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Over four weeks into the project, John was beginning to lose all sense of time. Between becoming a parent to a robot baby with his crush, realising he  _had_  a crush, turning eighteen (and cleaning up the mess a couple of teenagers could leave behind in a few hours), getting a boyfriend, skipping back and forth between Sherlock's and his own house  _and_  managing his work and assignments on top of that through countless sleepless nights, he felt like he didn't really know what was happening anymore.

He wasn't the only one affected by the strain, though. Since noticing Sherlock's exhaustion the other day, he'd realised that he looked more and more tired as the project went on. The sleep deprivation finally seemed to have caught up with him, too.

"You look horrible," he said one night, looking up from his books.

"Thanks." Sherlock sighed as he dropped his pen and stood up. “Well, I _feel_ horrible, if that's what you want to hear.” He stretched, then winced.

“Stiff back?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, looking appalled.

“I never used to get those. I'm getting old.”

John snorted. “You're not getting old. You're just affected by what's going on, like the rest of us.” A thought crossed his mind as he watched Sherlock rub his shoulders. “Do you want me to give you a massage?”

Sherlock looked up. “You'd do that?” he asked, sounding intrigued.

“Yeah, of course.” John licked his lips and smiled. “If you want me to.”

Sherlock nodded, looking much more attentive now. “On the bed, I suppose?”

“That would be best, yes. On your stomach. Take your shirt off before you lie down, yeah?”

It was a sign of Sherlock's absolute trust in him that he didn't hesitate for one second. John moved aside and gave him space to sprawl on the bed, then carefully swung a leg over him to settle on his hips.

He put his hands on Sherlock's skin, moving them up and down once. They both remained still for a moment, the air feeling heavy as the situation caught up with them.

They hadn't had the talk yet, but the implications of what they were doing were clear enough.

John couldn't deny the eroticism of their position, of having Sherlock sprawled beneath him, so trusting and pliant. But this was beyond sex, he recognised, something much more intimate and raw than any experiences he'd had with past flings.

On impulse he leaned down, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Sherlock inhaled sharply.

“Okay?” John muttered, sitting up to put both his hands on his back again.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. “Very good, yes.”

“Good.”

John closed his eyes, recalling the motions he was about to perform in his head. Then he began by slowly dragging his hands over his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the movement of his muscles underneath as he relaxed into the mattress.

People didn't think of massages as a mutually beneficial arrangement, but John found himself taking comfort in the motions as well, finding calmness in the contact of their skin.

For a while he kept at it, running his hands over Sherlock's back repeatedly. Sherlock gradually grew less tense under his touch. Then John began to knead his shoulders, feeling pleased when Sherlock let out a sigh at that.

He moved his hands to his neck, into his hair, grazing his skull softly before returning to his shoulders. Sherlock had shivered at the sensation. His eyes fell closed as John worked on his tense muscles.

“I didn't know you knew how to give massages,” he said after a while.

John smiled. “I'm just full of wonders, aren't I?”

“You are,” Sherlock said, and it sounded completely serious. John cleared his throat.

“Ah, my aunt actually showed me how to do it once,” he explained. “Just the basic moves, but I'm told it can do wonders. Harry usually forces me to give her one every few weeks.”

“I can see why,” Sherlock said, the rumble of his voice sending shivers down John's spine. He swallowed, shifting subtly as his body responded to the situation.

“Have you got any lotion or anything nearby?” he asked to distract himself. He kept his voice low, unwilling to disturb the intimacy of the moment. “It's not necessary, but it might be nice.”

“On the drawer,” Sherlock mumbled. John hid a smile when he made a sound of protest as he moved.

“I'll be right back,” he promised, his hand lingering on Sherlock's spine for a moment before he got up to fetch the lotion.

He squeezed it onto his hands first, rubbing them together to warm it up a little.

“Cold,” he warned before touching Sherlock again.

“I know.”

He still took a sharp breath when John put his hands on him again, moving them in circles until the lotion was evenly spread. Then he began to work on the glistening skin, kneading and rubbing the lotion in with gentle pressure. By the time he was done, Sherlock's skin was flushed and hot.

John leaned down, finishing by pressing a series of pecks up his spine. Then he lowered his upper body onto Sherlock's back, covering him with his chest. They lay like that for a while, matching their breathing as they enjoyed the closeness to each other.

“I'm not crushing you, am I?” John mumbled eventually, feeling Sherlock's breaths growing deeper.

Sherlock hummed in response. The vibrations went through both their bodies. “No, you're perfect.”

John turned his head to kiss the nape of his neck again. Then he muttered against his skin, “Can I try something else?"

The reply was instant. "Yes."

Sherlock raised his head to watch him when he sat up. John reached for his hand and squeezed once.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assured him. Then he put his hands to Sherlock's back again, running them over his skin once before he began to draw gentle lines.

Sherlock frowned. "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing you messages."

"Oh. Do it again," he demanded.

John repeated the motion and Sherlock smiled. "Hey to you too," he said.

John smiled as well. "Good." He spelled another one. Sherlock snorted.

"John. You'd think  _you_  were the one obsessed with bees.”

"Bees are fascinating creatures," John quoted his own words back at him. Sherlock chuckled.

"Do another one," he requested.

"Alright."

John hesitated, then made a decision. His heart beat so fast in his chest that he could hear the blood rustling in his ears. He took a deep breath, then brought his finger to Sherlock's skin again.

A line. Pause. Two lines, a circle, two lines, four. Pause. Two lines, circle, bow.

_I. Love. You._

There was a beat of silence as the words caught up with Sherlock. His lips were parted in silent realisation and his eyelids fluttered rapidly. John's heart contracted at the sight.

“John, you-”

“Shh,” John said, feeling like his heart might jump out of his chest at the croak of his voice. He swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “It's okay, you don't have to say it. We don't have to say it out loud yet. I just- I just want you to know. It's all fine.”

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded.

John took another deep breath to calm himself before leaning down, settling on Sherlock's back once more.

“Okay?” he asked again, reaching for Sherlock's hand. Sherlock enlaced their fingers immediately, holding on so tightly that John thought he might crush his hand. He'd be damned if he said a word about it, though.

“More than that,” Sherlock said, a strange tone to his voice that told John more than any words could have. He loved him so much in that moment that it hurt. _But it's a good kind of hurt,_ he thought, _the very, very best._

They stayed like that for a long time, not speaking, just basking in the feeling of being close to each other.

It wasn't a bad way to spend an evening at all.

* * *

"Fuck."

Sherlock looked up from his book. "Sorry?"

"It's a joke. This whole thing. It's a bloody joke."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Yes. Everything's wrong. It's just- so much, you know? No, you probably don't. You don't seem to be stressed about any of this _at all._  Any of your assignments. The project. I don't understand."

Sherlock closed his book and put it aside. "Come here," he requested. John obeyed, taking his laptop with him as he got onto the bed.

"You know I'm stressed as well," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "Yeah," he admitted, letting his head fall back to hit the wall. "You just seem to handle it so much better than I do. I'm sorry," he then added, running a hand over his face. "Really. I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to let it out on you. Again. God. It's not your fault."

"I know. It's fine, we're both stressed."

Sherlock's eyes wandered over John's face for a moment. Then a determined expression came over him, and he leaned over to shut John's laptop.

John blinked. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I just decided that we're going out. Come on."

"What? We can't go out, I have-"

"You have work to do, yes. Which you _can't_ do if you continue to be angry about the situation. You'll stop being angry about it when we change it. So we're going out.” He made a waving motion with his hands. “A change of scenery, if you will. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?”

John had to admit that he had a point.

"Alright," he said with a sigh. "Yeah, alright, you're not wrong. Where are we going, then?" he asked, getting up to strap Beatrice to his chest.

"I don't know yet. Let's just take a walk and see where we end up." Sherlock grabbed his things, then let him lead the way.

They took the bus to the city centre, turning into random streets from there on. It was a grey day, with a harsh wind blowing around them, but John was glad to see something other than his work for once. 

Eventually they stumbled upon a small cafe in a side street. It was cosy and just empty enough for them not to disturb too many people, should Beatrice begin to cry. So they decided to stay, ordering tea and a piece of cake after settling down.

John sighed contently when his order arrived.

Sherlock eyed him over the table. “Feeling better?” he enquired.

“Loads. You were right. I really needed to get out.”

Sherlock smiled. Then his eyes fell on John's hand on the table. He hesitantly reached out to cover it with his own, looking a bit unsure about the gesture. John turned his hand around to squeeze his in reassurance, and they smiled at each other.

“We're almost done with this term,” Sherlock said after taking a sip from his cup. “It's not long now. You'll make it, I know you will.”

“As long as I have you to get me through it,” John amended. The colour rising in Sherlock's cheeks made him chuckle. “Let's not talk about it though, alright? This is too nice to waste any time on thoughts about school.”

“Of course.” Sherlock's eyes fixated on John's cake. “Let me try that,” he said with a nod. John grinned.

“Sure, your majesty. Come here.”

They spoke strictly of other things after that, and John managed to ban any thoughts about their work to the back of his mind.

Beatrice even remained quiet until they'd both finished their tea and it was time to get going anyway.

John sighed at the prospect of having to return to the report as they got up to leave. But Sherlock had been right, of course he had. Dating a genius did have its merits. The afternoon out had cleared his head, and he felt more rested than he'd done before.

They'd get through this somehow, he thought. And then they'd finally get a rest.

* * *

"God fucking damn it. Time sure flies when you don't want it to, huh? Fuck."

John looked up as Greg shut his book with another curse. It was the middle of finals week, and John wasn't the only one who hadn't gotten a proper break since Sherlock had taken him out last week. None of them felt entirely sane anymore.

“Studying's going well, I take it?” he asked.

“Yeah, awesome." Greg groaned. "I'm so done with everything.”

“Our final exam is in two days,” Mike pointed out.

“I know. And you know what? I'm still done. Right now. Done.”

Molly sighed. “We could really all use a break, huh?” she asked.

Everyone nodded wistfully.

Greg turned to her, his face lighting up. “Hey, that's a great idea! How about we just take this afternoon off? All of us!” He looked around expectantly.

“How do you mean?” Janine asked, sounding intrigued.

“I don't know, we could go to the park or something? If everyone brings something to drink or a snack we can spend the day outside. Play some football, lie around doing nothing, relax a little. Things like that. It's good for the soul.”

“I think you're right, Greg,” Molly said, looking out of the window with a longing glance. “The weather is so nice. And I can't seem to get any of this in my head right now. I need some time off.”

“That does sound great. But I'm not sure if I should go,” John pondered, frowning at his sheets of paper. “We haven't even finished the report yet.”

“Neither have we,” Irene said. “So what? I could certainly use a break. I'm in.”

Other people agreed on coming, and John turned to Sherlock, squeezing his hand.

“What do you say? Do you wanna go?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's up to you. I don't see how any scenario with more than one baby present could be considered relaxing, but I don't mind either way. We can go if you like.”

“Well, we won't get much more done today anyway,” John considered.

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

“I suppose what we haven't studied by now, we won't study at all.”

Well, at least John wouldn't. Sherlock  _could_ , but if studying with Sherlock had shown John anything, it was that he didn't lift a finger if he didn't want to. And he certainly didn't want to now.

“Quite right.”

John smiled. “Let's go then, yeah? I think we both need to get some fresh air.”

“Alright.” Sherlock smiled when John pecked his cheek.

John was glad for the decision when they left the school. The day really was beautiful, perfect to be spent in the park. There were barely any clouds hiding the sun, and it was almost too warm to be comfortable.

When John and Sherlock arrived, lots of their classmates were already there. Some of them were playing football on the side, others were sitting around or lying in the sun in small groups.

Someone had brought speakers, and music was blasting over the wide lawn. They went for a shady place underneath a tree, where Janine was sitting on her own, a bottle of coke in her hand.

“Hey!” she called out when she saw them approaching, waving at them.

“John insisted that we bring something, so we got muffins,” Sherlock said as they came to stand in front of her. Janine's face lit up.

“Nice! You can stay, Sherl.”

Sherlock looked appalled. “I'll consider it if you stop calling me that.”

“I'll consider it if you hand me a muffin," she countered.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain, but obeyed. He looked a bit like Mycroft when he did that face, though John would never tell him that. He tried to suppress his grin and failed.

“Where's your girlfriend?” he then asked.

“Still at practice. She should be here in a few minutes, though. Keep me company till then?”

“What's everyone up to, then?” John asked when they'd settled down, looking around.

“Well, Mike, Bill, Sarah and someone whose name I don't know have gone to play football. I think most of the others are lying in the sun to get a tan-” a grin spread on her face- “and Molly and Greg have disappeared _somewhere._ ”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John smirked in return. “Oh, have they? Interesting.”

“Yup. I think more people are coming, though. Our plan to get out caught on, it seems. Everyone wants to come.” She shrugged. “Can't blame them.”

“The more the merrier, right? We can all use a break.”

She sighed. “Definitely. If I have to see one more textbook... Oh, there she comes! Hey!”

John looked up to find Irene making her way towards them.

“Whoever brought the music, I _love_ them!” she said, coming to stand before them.

“How was practice?” Janine asked, blinking up at her with a smile.

“Great. You know, I think I feel just warm enough to keep going.” She took in the lawn, then grinned at Janine.

“Come and join me, darling?” she asked, holding out a hand.

Janine snorted. “Oh no, you're not serious! Really?”

“I am." She bowed her head. "My lady, may I have this dance?”

Janine looked at Irene, then at their doll.

“What about the baby?”

“Leave it. We'll hear it when she cries.”

She bit her lip, then gave in. “Oh, alright. You _know_ I can't deny you anything.”

Irene smirked as he helped her to her feet, then kissed her.

“It's why I love you,” she said, then pulled her across the meadow. They came to stand in a bright patch of sunlight, illuminating them like a spotlight. Irene put her arms around Janine's waist and began to move to the beat, giving her no choice but to move along.

John watched them as they danced, completely absorbed in their own little world. He envied Irene a little for her ability to make any place she went her stage. To not just not give a damn about what anyone thought, but giving them a show, too.

Irene caught his eye and grinned, waving at them. “Come on, join us!” she called. Janine nodded fervently.

“Yeah, don't let us be the only ones making fools out of ourselves!” she cried, then giggled when Irene moved her hands up her waist.

John watched them laughing for a moment, then glanced at Sherlock.

“You know, I never did get to dance at my birthday party.”

Sherlock hummed next to him. “Neither did I.”

John turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows. “What, you and dancing? I never would have taken you for the type.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned closer. His breath tickled John's ear as he muttered, “I'll let you in on a secret. I love dancing. I've always loved it.”

The sensation left goosebumps on John's skin. He fought the shiver his voice had provoked, then smiled as well.

“What are you waiting for, then?”

He jumped to his feet, holding out his hand. Sherlock quirked his eyebrows.

“Seriously?”

“I'm dead serious.” John wriggled his fingers. “Will you do me the honour of joining me for a dance, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock only hesitated for a moment before he took John's hand, letting himself be pulled up.

“Just a fair warning,” he said, smiling a cheeky smile that made John's heart flutter embarrassingly, “I used to take dancing lessons when I was younger. I'm very good at it.”

Then he took the lead, pulling John along to the sunny spot in the middle of the meadow. Irene and Janine cheered when they saw them coming closer.

John took a look at Sherlock when he stopped walking and turned around to face him. He was so tall and gorgeous, with his dark curls and the sunlight softening his features. He swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit silly.

“Um. I don't actually know how to dance, you know. I just sort of... do it.”

“John. Don't be ridiculous.” Sherlock took John's hands and guided them to his hips, then wrapped his arms around his waist. “Just do what you always do.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to John's forehead. “Don't hold back, remember?” he mumbled against his skin. John felt his cheeks flushing at the affectionate gesture.

Then Sherlock began to move to the music, and they were so close that John couldn't help but move along.

It felt a bit awkward at first, dancing out in the open for everyone to see like that. But it was...  _good._  More than good. John had underestimated what it would feel like to move so close to Sherlock, to touch him and be touched in return as their bodies ground against each other time and time again.

John forgot about everyone else and focused entirely on Sherlock.

He could hear their elevated breathing over the sound of the music. The touch of his body to John's was electrifying, sending sparks through him every time they met.

John's hands soon began to move over Sherlock's body on their own account, and Sherlock pulled him even closer in response. They were almost chest to chest now. Their hips were directly aligned, and John swallowed hard at the heightened friction.

“I don't normally do this when I dance with someone,” he mumbled.

“I should hope so,” Sherlock replied. “I don't normally dance with someone, full stop,” he added.

John chuckled. “I should hope so,” he repeated, dragging his hands over Sherlock's skin. “Not like this, anyway.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “Only you, John. Always you.”

John buried his face in Sherlock's neck and let his hands go exploring again. He gripped Sherlock's hips, experimentally touching on his bum before returning to safer territory.

Sherlock gasped and bucked his hips without thinking, and they both hissed at the sensation.

Sherlock's hands tightened on John's body as they still moved against each other, the friction growing almost unbearable, and John realised with a start that his body was starting to respond to their actions.

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath told him that he wasn't the only one.

John's ears burned. He licked his lips, trying to will the blood back to where it had come from.

“Um. Maybe we should- sit back down,” he suggested, sounding breathless even to his own ears.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, panting as well. “Just- uh. John. I need a minute.”

His cheeks were deliciously flushed, his eyes widened as they fixed on John's face. The view didn't help John's state in the slightest.

“A minute,” John agreed with a nod.

He loosened his grip on Sherlock's body to take a step back and bring some space between them, careful to not let anyone see anything.

They slowly stopped moving, in the end just holding each other loosely as the song faded and a new one began.

Sherlock's face glistened as they took each other in, and John's own shirt clung to his skin.

“Alright?” John asked quietly, catching his breath.

Sherlock swallowed, nodding once.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

John twined their fingers together, then ran a hand through his hair to compose himself before making his way back.

They saw Greg and Molly returning as well, both radiating a sense of secretive joy. Well, something had definitely happened there as well, John thought. Now Greg's eyes were on Sherlock and him, a smirk on his face, and John knew something was coming before Greg had even opened his mouth.

“What the hell was I forced to witness there, lads?” he asked when they crossed paths, his eyes twinkling. Before John could think of anything to say, Sherlock replied.

“Oh, trust me when I say that you didn't see half of what was actually happening,” he said, giving John a suggestive glance. Greg gulped and John snorted. He beamed at his boyfriend as they reached their spot and sat down. This was a side of Sherlock he hadn't had much time to explore yet, this easy playfulness, not just with him, but with others. He found that he quite liked it.

Greg got distracted by Molly in the meantime, who was saying something into his ear the others couldn't hear. He clearly wasn't paying them attention anymore, but John wouldn't have it. He put on an innocent smile.

“Hey, you got a sunburn, Greg?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Huh?”

“Well, you're all red in the face. I just thought.”

The flush was nothing compared to the shade of red Greg now displayed. John couldn't help but laugh at his reaction. It was nice to have him on the receiving end of the teasing for once.

They made themselves comfortable in the shadow, sharing drinks and snacks and chattering on. Eventually Irene and Janine came back as well, slumping down next to the group. Now and then a baby demanded attention, but none of them broke the easy atmosphere with a crying fit. John was enjoying himself a lot, sitting with his friends and his boyfriend like that. He looked up and smiled when Sherlock tugged at his arm. 

“Yeah?”

“John. You're too far away.”

John snorted in amusement. “I'm right next to you, love,” he said.

“John.”

Sherlock's long legs were stretched out before him. Now he uncrossed them, directing John there with a glance. John raised his eyebrows.

“Really? We're all hot and dishevelled,” he remarked.

“I don't care.”

John bit his lip, then nodded. “Alright, sure. Just don't, er, do anything to get me... excited, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the pleased curve of his lips diminished the effect.

John moved to the space between Sherlock's legs, leaning against his narrow chest with a content sigh. _Good idea,_ he thought. _As always._

One of Sherlock's hands came to rest on John's belly, the other remained between them. John didn't really partake in the conversation, instead enjoying the company in silence, focusing on the closeness to Sherlock. His fingers roamed over his back time and time again, and John relaxed into the touch.

"John,” Sherlock rumbled into his ear after a while.

"Hm?"

"Pay attention."

"To? Oh!" John realised quickly that the lines Sherlock was drawing on his back were letters. He sat up a little to give him more space. Sherlock started again.

_John._

He smiled. “Yeah, Sherlock?”

 _Hot,_  he spelled out. John grinned.

"Yes, very," he agreed.

 _You,_  Sherlock wrote. John chuckled, looking down to hide his face.

Then Sherlock moved to write another message, hesitating only slightly before spelling out the words. John's breath caught in his throat as he recognised the movements.

He turned around to look at Sherlock, who was watching him intently. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice didn't obey. Sherlock leaned closer, a hand on his arm.

“I love you, John,” he mumbled into his ear, “I think it's time that we say it. I love you.”

John let out a shaky exhale.

“Sherlock,” he said, then grabbed his face to crush their lips together.

The angle of the kiss was a bit awkward, but it was warm and  _Sherlock_  and it still tasted of those beautiful, perfect words, and John couldn't imagine a better one if he tried.

“I love you too,” he mumbled after they parted, pecking his lips again. “God, Sherlock, I love you.”

The words felt so new, so exciting, sending sparks through his every cell. John hoped that he never grew used to saying it.

He leaned back against Sherlock, his hands resting on Sherlock's arms as they came around him, tightening their hold despite the warmth.

It was hot, and sticky, and people were laughing and yelling all around them, but this moment was theirs. Completely and exclusively theirs, and it was perfect. It was absolutely perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from Italy! I'm on a school trip right now, but I wanted to update as usual! (I had to rewrite this chapter and, due to my travelling, had less time to edit, so I really hope this is of the usual quality.) There's one more chapter coming, so stay tuned for the ending :)


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up with a surging pain in his neck. He lifted his head, trying to work through the disorientation clouding his mind.

He was on the bed. Which was... good, since he'd just been asleep. He distinctly remembered getting there late last night, joining Sherlock after long hours of work. He'd... What had he been doing?

John frowned, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to recollect his last memories. He remembered getting into bed, but he couldn't recall actually going to sleep. He'd been working on the report...

John sat up with a start, wincing when a sharp pain ripped through him.

The report. Which was due today. Along with the presentation. He looked around in panic, grabbing his phone and nearly throwing his laptop down in the process.

8:40 am.

He wasn't just late. By the time he could get to school, he would have missed the entire lesson.

“Shit.”

He looked around the room, trying to come up with a plan. His eyes fell on his laptop, which was neatly situated on Sherlock's pillow. He was almost certain that he hadn't closed it and put it there, which meant that Sherlock had done it for him.

Speaking of.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Bee.

John got out of bed, padding into the bathroom. Both of Sherlock's parents had gone to work already. He had the entire house to himself. John got ready in record time, stuffing his things and a bottle of water into his bag. He grabbed an apple from the kitchen and started chewing as he hurried out of the door.

By the time John reached the school, it was almost late enough for the first break. He lingered outside the classroom, waiting for Sherlock to come out while hiding from Mr. Copper to avoid any questions about his sudden appearance.

He managed to dodge the teacher, grabbing Sherlock's arm as soon as he stepped out of the classroom.

“John!” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, but let himself be pulled into a corner. “What are you doing here?” He frowned. “Have you slept enough already?”

“What am I _doing_ here?” John repeated, shaking his head. “Sherlock, why the hell didn't you wake me?”

“You'd only just fallen asleep, you would have been of no use anyway. And you needed to rest. You were entirely sleep-deprived last night.”

“How do you know I'd only just went to bed? You were asleep yourself when I got there.”

“Your charger wasn't there and your battery was still at 92 percent when I woke up, which means that you can't have gone to bed much earlier.”

“Right.” _Try to argue with a genius about logic._ John sighed. “You still should have woken me. I didn't call in sick, _and_ I missed the presentation. And you had to do it all on your own!”

Sherlock frowned. “You didn't have to call in sick, you're excused. We still have the babies, and one of us is allowed to miss class because of them. Besides, you wrote most of the report, so it's only fair that I presented it.”

John shook his head, ignoring the second part of his statement for now.

“But that only applies when I'm looking after Bee," he argued. "You took her with you.”

“Mr. Copper didn't say anything. It's fine.”

John took a deep breath. “Alright. Still, you shouldn't have done that all on your own.”

“I don't understand.” Sherlock looked genuinely confused. “I split the work. Isn't that what you're supposed to do in a partnership?”

John stared at him with his mouth hanging open. He blinked, trying to process the marvel that his boyfriend was. Instead of waking him up, Sherlock had actually gone and just... done everything himself. And he didn't even seem to understand what the big deal was.

“Sherlock, you-” John cut himself off and shook his head. How had he gotten so lucky?

“Come here, you,” he mumbled, then stretched to crash their mouths together. Sherlock made a surprised sound, angling Beatrice out of the way as he returned the kiss readily.

John was aware of their surroundings, but he loved Sherlock so much in that moment that it was easy to throw any restrictions over board. A little too easy, perhaps, seeing as they _were_ still at school. He settled for pouring his feelings into the insistent touch of his lips on Sherlock's, pressing together as close as possible, his tongue sweeping out cheekily before he broke the kiss with a sigh. His own heavy breathing was a mirror image for Sherlock's, who was blinking at him with wide eyes.

“Was that my reward?” he mumbled, touching his lips where John had kissed him just moments ago. _Too long,_ John pondered. _Much too long._

“Yes. You can get as many rewards as you want,” he affirmed, wrapping his arms around his middle. Sherlock returned the hug with one arm, still balancing Beatrice with the other.

“Okay. That's good.” He sounded like he intended to take him up on that promise later on. John smiled at the prospect.

“I don't know what I did to deserve you,” he muttered into his chest, then let go to peck his cheek. “Come on. If I'm taking advantage of being allowed to stay home, the least I can do is take Beatrice with me.”

“Alright.” Sherlock handed her over to him. “I only have music class before I can leave. I'll be home in a bit.”

“Great. I look forward to it.”

They met for a final kiss before parting ways. John really did go back to sleep for another hour before Beatrice woke him again. When he got up to fetch her, rocking her in his arms, he snatched his laptop from the bed as well. The document with the report was still open from last night, but there was another paragraph added to the final conclusion.

 

_At the end of our project we were asked to revisit certain questions from our first questionnaire and decide whether our answers have changed, and if so, why._   
_While I initially did not expect to see my answers changing, I now have to reconsider my earlier judgement. Although I still don't plan on having children, I can now see myself taking care of them if the situation requires it, possibly even for an extended amount of time, as long as I have the right partner by my side to support me._   
_Looking back on the past weeks, I can confidently say that I could not have done this project without John. He took over when it got too much to handle by myself, guided me when I felt overstrained, and was a steady and helpful presence that I wouldn't have wanted to miss for anything. He showed me that good things can come from unexpected situations, and I am grateful to have shared this experience with him as my partner. While raising a child is a challenging task in several ways, I now believe that it is possible with the right person by your side._

 

John swallowed. He reread the paragraph, then shook his head.

“You're impossible,” he mumbled. “You're absolutely impossible, you mad, wonderful person.”

He was _definitely_ going to kiss Sherlock some more when he came home. A whole lot more, if he had any say in it.

* * *

The week was coming to a close, with each group presenting their projects to the class during sociology lessons, and before either of them knew it, Friday had come. Their last night with Beatrice was neither the best nor the worst they'd had with her, and when they got in line to return the babies, John looked down at her with mixed feelings.

"Feels weird to give her back,” he mused.

"You mean nice.”

“Bit strange, actually.”

"Relieving,” Sherlock countered.

“That, too,” John conceded. “Still.”

"Honestly, John. She's an annoying computer doll.”

"She's _our_ annoying computer doll, Sherlock. And anyway, she’s the reason we got together, isn't she? In a way. Who knows where we'd be if it hadn't been for this project. That counts for something, doesn't it?”

Sherlock seemed to take that into consideration. “I concede it,” he said. “The benefits outweigh the disadvantages.”

“Well.” John laughed at that. “I'm glad to hear it. Come on, say goodbye. It's almost our turn. Time to give her back.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took another look at Beatrice.

“Well. Goodbye.” He wrinkled his nose, giving John a look. “This is stupid.”

John giggled. “Oh, that wasn't too hard, was it? Come off it.” He smiled down at Beatrice. “Bye, Bee,” he said, then handed her over to Mr. Copper.

There were only three more groups waiting in line, and the students were dismissed quickly after that. John and Sherlock left the building behind the rest of their classmates, strolling down the pavement in companionable silence as they made their way home.

“It does feel weird,” John said after a while, glancing at Sherlock. “Admit it.”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “It's perfectly normal to adjust to a situation you're presented with over several weeks," he eventually said.

John elbowed him, then took his hand as they walked. A smile spread on his face as the realisation that the project was actually over slowly sank in.

“We're free now,” he said, shaking his head. “We're actually free, Sherlock! Free to do whatever we like.”

“We still have a week of school left,” Sherlock reminded him, but a smile played on his lips as well as he spoke.

“Still. All the bad stuff is over now. Just be glad there's no prom this year.”

Sherlock hummed. “I might let myself be persuaded to take you to prom next year, with the right... motivation.”

“Mmh, you in a suit, taking me to a fancy prom, dancing... I may be able to think of something.” The look Sherlock gave him made it clear that that would be in his best interest as well.

John hid a grin. He'd think of something, he vowed to himself. Something very special, for a very special person. Although something told him that he wouldn't be needing that much persuasion anyway.

“Still,” John returned to the former topic before his thoughts could take an indecent turn, “we're free for now. The last week doesn't matter. Just imagine all the things we can do now...”

He grinned as he slowly leaned in, catching Sherlock's lips between his. He teasingly nibbled on the soft skin, waiting for Sherlock to make that tiny sigh he _so_ loved to lure out of him. Then he let it grow into a real kiss.

“What do you have in mind?” Sherlock mumbled when they parted, then leaned in to kiss him again right away, deeper this time.

“I can think of a thing or two,” John mused, then abandoned speech and dedicated himself to devouring Sherlock's mouth.

“Let's get home first, though," he said with a giggle after drawing back, taking Sherlock's flushed face in.

In the end, they didn't do that much at all. They came home to find Sherlock's mother already there, so they helped her with the cooking. They excused themselves soon after dinner to fall into bed together, both too tired for more than kissing and some experimental groping. It was more than enough for now, though. It was perfect. Everything they did together was so, so perfect.

John grinned at the prospect of endless weeks ahead, during which they could try new things and explore each other. He still had a light feeling in his chest as he dozed off, with Sherlock right next to him and all those great days ahead.

* * *

The weekend brought them another two days of cloudless sunshine, and John and Sherlock decided to celebrate their regained freedom by going to the park again. It was just the two of them this time, no baby, no friends.

They'd brought sandwiches for lunch, and Sherlock didn't have to ask John to sit between his legs twice after they'd eaten. John leaned back with a content sigh, enjoying their closeness. He never would have taken Sherlock for the cuddling type before they'd gotten together, but it was a nice surprise. Very, very nice.

They both turned their heads when their phones, abandoned on the edge of the blanket, vibrated consecutively. Sherlock reached for his and checked his messages.

“It's an email from Mr. Copper,” he said. “Our doll's data has been evaluated.”

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows. “What did we get?”

“91 percent.”

“What? Wow! I didn't- well, I didn't think we'd do this well, actually. That's great.”

Sherlock carelessly dropped his phone again to wrap his arms around John, holding him tightly.

“Why not?” he mumbled into his ear. “I told you you were good at this in the beginning. I wasn't lying.”

John turned his head a little, chasing the touch of Sherlock's skin after he'd drawn back.

“Well, it's not all on me, though,” he said. “We did this together, you and me. I think we can be proud of ourselves, don't you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock rumbled, pressing kisses to the side of John's head from above. “I think we can.”

John closed his eyes when Sherlock began to hum a melody. It was nothing he recognised, but his knowledge of classical music was limited at best.

“That sounds nice,” he said, turning his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's jaw. “Is that something you've played before? I'd like to hear you play the violin again some time.”

“I can play for you when we get home,” Sherlock mumbled into his ear. John smiled.

“That would be lovely,” he said, wriggling closer to Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They stayed at the park until their stomachs started growling again. Funnily enough, it was Sherlock's that made itself felt first. John turned around with raised eyebrows, and Sherlock gave him a crooked smile.

It had gotten somewhat late - once again John hadn't noticed time going by so fast. The sun was already low as they packed their things together.

“This summer has been so good so far,” John noted on their way back, squinting at the bright sky. “I mean, just weather-wise, it's amazing. I hope it stays that way, now that we have all that free time.”

“It'll be amazing in other ways too,” Sherlock said.

“I hope so.” John nodded. “The past years, they haven't really been. Great. Being home all the time just didn't have that much appeal. But now I've got somewhere else to be, don't I? So you're probably right.”

“I often am,” Sherlock remarked with a chuckle. He squeezed his hand in silent comfort, and John looked ahead and smiled. The sun began to set as they walked, and John sighed contently as he watched the colourful play presented to them.

“It's so beautiful outside. I don't wanna go back in just yet. Let's go to the garden after dinner, yeah?”

“Alright. Yes. Let's do that.” A smile spread on Sherlock's face, telling John that he was thinking of their first night spent in his garden as well. It felt like so long ago. How different things had still been back then!

Well, John thought with a grin, it was time to make new memories there. To claim that kiss he'd wanted so badly under the night sky. His heart jumped at the thought. He was nearly buzzing with the anticipation, yearning to get home soon and start right away.

_Home._

John hadn't even thought about going home yesterday, after they'd given Beatrice back. To _his_ home. Sherlock's house had come to feel so much like that. It was strange to think of his own flat and associate it with the term.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Just- I just realised, I didn't even think twice about going back with you yesterday. Or today.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would you?” He took both of John's hands and intertwined them with his. John couldn't help but smile at that.

“Because the project's over, Sherlock, and I've no excuse to constantly live with you now.”

“But you'll still sleep over,” Sherlock stated. Although it was more a declaration than a question, John could hear the uncertainty behind it. He supposed that it was only natural that Sherlock still felt somewhat insecure in their relationship. It _had_ only been a short time, hadn't it? Though it felt much, much longer. Either way, John didn't mind reassuring Sherlock. He'd do it every day if he had to. Gladly.

“Of course I will.” He nodded. “I'm just not sure either of our parents would appreciate it if I just permanently moved in with you.”

“John.” Sherlock stopped walking and caught his wrist. “Don't be ridiculous. My parents won't mind, they like having you there. You can still stay over, if you like. Whenever you like,” he corrected.

“What, without the baby?” John clutched his chest in pretended shock. “What are we going to do, actually _sleep?_ ”

Sherlock hummed. “That,” he said, drawing the word out, “or... not.”

He dragged his fingers up John's arm suggestively, leaving a trail of goose bumps, then reached for his hand again. John intertwined their fingers immediately.

“That sounds intriguing,” he said, using his free hand to guide Sherlock down by the back of his neck. “Perfect, actually.”

He moved to peck his lips, but Sherlock caught him in a deeper kiss before he could draw back.

“Mmh.” A muffled sound came from John as they kissed. “Yes,” he mumbled when they broke for air, panting only slightly, “very good. Yes. Perfect. You've convinced me.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “I love you,” he said. The words still sent sparks through John's whole body. “We'll make this a good summer. The best yet.”

John let himself imagine it, endless days spent with Sherlock, kisses and deep laughter and that lovely, homely house, and he began to smile without meaning to.

“You know,” he said, stretching to meet Sherlock's ready lips for another soft kiss, “I do think you're right. Summer really can't come soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I can't believe it's done! It feels like I only started posting yesterday... I sincerely hope you had as much fun with this story as I did! Thank you so much to everyone who read along, left kudos, and especially to those of you who commented. I seriously can't tell you what it means to me. Now, all of you have as great a summer as Sherlock and John will!


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